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FUNDAMENTALS  OF 
FICTION  WEITING 


FUNDAMENTALS  OF 
FICTION  WRITING 


By 

Aethub  Sullivant  Hoffman 


m 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE    BOBBS-IVIEERILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHEES 


Copyright,  1922 
Bt  Arthur  Sullivant  Hoffman 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH   £.   CO. 

BOOK   MANUFACTURERS' 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


V 

i 


1^ 


A« 


V 


^ 


V^6Ti 


LX. 


To 

JAMES  H.  GANNON 

Whose  Understanding  Cooperation  Has 

Made  the  Application  of  These 

Principles  a  Pleasant  Task 


2093.10 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  By  Way  of  Introduction 

II  A    General    Survey    .     . 

III  Creating   the   Illusion 

IV  Your    Readers 
V  Distractions 

VI  Clearness     .     , 

VII  Overstrain         .     . 

VIII  Convincingness 

IX  Holding  the  Reader 

X  Pleasing   the   Reader 

XI  Plot  and  Structure 

XII  Character     ,     .     . 

XIII  Individuality  vs.  Technique   . 

XIV  Ihe  Reader  and  His  Imagination 
XV  The  Place  of  Action  in  Fiction  . 

XVI    Adaptation  of  Style  to  ]Material 
Appendix  :     Your  Manuscripts  and 

Editors 

Index       ,.;    ,.    ..    ..,    ,■„    ,.,    .    ,.,    . 


PAGE 
I 
17 
30 
46 
52 
70 

S7 
94 
109 

120;, 

170 
182 
197 
205 
217 

227 
247 


FUNDAMENTALS  OF 
FICTION  WRITING 

CHAPTER  I 

BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

Living  in  so  complex  a  civilization,  we  gen- 
erally fail  to  realize  how  complex  have  be- 
come our  mental  habits.  We  have  come 
more  and  more  to  think  upon  complexities 
until,  for  the  most  part,  the  more  elementary 
facts,  processes  and  approaches  are  slighted 
or  omitted  as  beneath  the  high  development 
of  our  minds.  However  learned  our  think- 
ing may  be,  its  foundation  must  be  elemen- 
tary thinking,  and,  if  elementary  thinking  is 
neglected  because  it  seems  too  elementary  for 
attention,  the  result  is  likely  to  be  unsound- 
ness of  the  whole  structure  because  it  has 
been  erected  on  unsound  foundation. 

Add  to  faulty  thinking  habit  the  human  ten- 
1 


2  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

dency  to  accept  as  established  what  has  been 
handed  down  to  us  by  our  thought  predeces- 
sors, dead  or  contemporaneous.  Progress 
can  be  made  only  to  the  extent  this  tendency 
is  overcome  by  chance  or  guarded  against. 
Guarding  against  it  requires  particularly  the 
close  scrutiny  of  elementals. 

It  is  particularly  unfortunate  that,  the  spe- 
cialists of  course  being  the  most  complex 
thinkers  of  us  all,  we  have  allowed  our  habit 
of  specialization  to  leave  to  them  more  and 
more  the  guidance  of  general  thought,  thus 
drifting  further  and  further  from  elementary 
methods  of  thinking. 

The  more  thoroughly  you  analyze  modern 
thinking  methods  and  their  results,  the  more 
evident  becomes  tlie  damage  done. 

Simplicity  is  the  key,  but,  being  rather 
proud  of  our  complexity  and  advancement, 
we  have  become  such  strangers  to  simplicity 
that  we  even  distrust  it  when  we  meet  it.  It 
is  most  pitiful  of  all  that  a  mere  outward 
show  of  complexity  gains  more  respect  than 
does  a  simple  essential  unadorned.  Yet  it  is 
true.  Almost  automatically  simplicity  pro- 
duces in  us  a  reaction  of  contempt,  a  feeling 
that  our  highly  developed  minds  have  long 


BY   WAY   OF   rNTRODUCTION  6 

ago  passed  on  bej'ond  such  childish  matters. 
We  are  too  advanced  to  bother  over  the  ele- 
mentals  and  the  result  too  often  is  much 
frantic  "progress"  along  wrong  paths. 

In  the  course  of  my  editorial  work  it  im- 
pressed itself  on  me  more  and  more  that 
there  was  somewhere  unsoundness  in  both 
the  editorial  basis  of  criticism  and  the  writers' 
basis  of  creation.  Being  afflicted  with  the 
prevalent  complex  method  of  thought,  it  was 
only  gradually  that  I  came  to  suspect  that  the 
unsoundness  traced  back  to  some  of  the  ele- 
mentals  all  of  us  seemed  to  be  taking  for 
granted.  My  suspicions  have  grown  the 
stronger  during  the  years  of  "laboratory" 
work,  at  some  points  ripening  into  convic- 
tions, so  that  in  this  book  intended  to  be  of 
practical  service  to  writers  of  magazine  fic- 
tion they  will  inevitably  show.  They  must, 
therefore,  be  labeled  in  advance  as  depar- 
tures from  the  usual  dicta  laid  down,  so  that 
the  reader  can  make  allowance  accordingly. 

While  my  personal  history  is  unimportant, 
some  of  the  details  that  may  indicate,  or  that 
seem  to  have  influenced,  the  theories  devel- 
oped have  place  in  this  book  as  guide-posts 
in  valuing  or  discounting  it. 


4  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

It  is,  for  example,  only  fair  to  make  plain 
in  advance  that  I  am  probably  far  less  famil- 
iar with  books  on  how  to  write  fiction  than 
are  most  beginners  who  may  read  this  book, 
and  probably  know — or  remember — less  con- 
cerning the  dicta  of  critics  and  other  authori- 
ties on  literature  in  general.  On  the  other 
hand,  in  view  of  the  probable  reaction  to 
some  of  my  unacademic  views,  I  claim  the 
right  to  state  that  these  views  do  not  result 
from  lack  of  academic  training.  Also  a  brief 
statement  of  my  experience  as  editor  and 
writer  seems  called  for  by  way  of  warrant  for 
my  venturing  to  advance  any  theories  at  all. 

I  have  been  an  editor  more  than  twenty 
years,  a  magazine  editor  for  nearly  twenty, 
serving  on  seven  widely  different  periodicals 
— general,  specialized  and  fiction — Chautaii- 
quan.  Smart  Set,  Watson's,  Transatlantic 
Tales,  Delineator,  Romance,  Adventure.  At 
inters^als  during  that  time  I  have  contributed 
fiction  and  articles  to  Everybody's,  McClnre's, 
Bookman,  Country  Life,  Delineator,  Smart 
Set  and  half  a  dozen  others.  Previous  to  this 
there  were  nearly  three  years  as  editor  of  a 
country  weekly  and  two  years  of  teaching 
English  and  literature  in  high  school.    I  spe- 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  O 

cialized  in  English  at  one  university  and 
added  some  graduate  work  in  fiction  writing 
at  another. 

As  a  child  my  home  influence  was  decid- 
edly literary,  even  to  a  point  that  might  be 
designated  "highbrow,"  with  the  natural 
flavoring  of  science  rather  to  be  expected  in 
a  house  largely  occupied  by  my  grandfather's 
microscopes  and  shelves  of  specimens.  In  a 
word,  my  early  training  was  decidedly  aca- 
demic, and  as  a  "cub"  I  came  to  the  magazine 
"game"  spelling  "literature"  with  a  very  large 
capital  "L"  and  with  more  than  the  usual 
cub  reverence  for  books  and  magazines  and 
all  that  pertains  thereto. 

Like  the  majority  of  magazine  editors,  I 
found  that  my  first  task  was  to  shove  most  of 
my  academic  training  and  point  of  view  into 
the  background,  making  of  them  an  accessory 
rather  than  a  guide,  and  adopting  an  alto- 
gether new  scale  of  relative  values.  A  few 
months  accomplished  the  greater  part  of  the 
change,  but  it  required  years  to  develop  sus- 
picion of  that  new  and  commonly  accepted 
scale,  to  ripen  the  suspicion  to  conviction  and 
to  build  up  a  third  scale  to  take  its  place  in 
my  work. 


6  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

Before  entering  the  magazine  field,  I  re- 
member only  one  questioning  of  precepts  and 
tenets.  About  1900  I  refused  to  read  any 
more  authors  "for  style,"  reahzing  I  was 
against  my  will  absorbing  too  many  of  their 
individualities,  Stevenson's  sentence-rhythm 
in  particular  imposing  itself  on  my  literary 
efforts  to  a  decided  degree.  "Style  is  the 
man"  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  text- 
book statements  that  sank  in  deepest,  and  it 
gave  me  courage  to  rebel  against  another  of 
its  kind. 

In  my  college  course  three  things  stand  out 
as  strong  in  influence.  All  were  encountered 
in  work  of  the  thesis  class  conducted  by  Pro- 
fessor Joseph  Villiers  Denney  with  a  sound 
judgment  and  breadth  of  view  that  were 
bound  to  be  stimulative  and  give  permanent 
value.  First,  laboratory  experiments  upon 
the  class  itself  showed  us,  to  our  great  sur- 
prise, the  tremendous  degree  of  variation  in 
individuals  as  to  the  quality  and  degree  of 
their  imagination-response  to  the  printed  or 
spoken  word.  I  have  met  few  writers  or  edi- 
tors who  had  any  conception  of  this  variation 
or  who  had  even  given  the  matter  a  thought, 
yet  it  is  of  basic  importance  to  both. 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  7 

The  second  idea  outstanding  from  my  col- 
lege course  is  the  explanation  of  the  psj'cho- 
logical  appeal  of  fiction  given  by  George 
Henrj'^  Lewes  to  the  effect  that  man  finds  en- 
joj'ment  in  fiction  because  by  following  the 
fortunes  of  the  hero  or  identifying  himself 
with  him  he  can  attain  vicariously  the  perfec- 
tions and  successes  he  can  not  attain  in  real 
life.  I  have  not  seen  it  for  twentj'^-four  years 
and  may  have  distorted  it,  but  the  idea  as 
stated  has  been  the  one  acted  upon. 

Third,  there  was  Spencer's  economj'^  as  a 
basis  of  rhetorical  theory.  I  remember  noth- 
ing whatever  about  it  except  that  he  included 
economy  of  the  reader's  attention.  To  what 
extent  this  phase  of  his  idea  is  responsible  for 
my  own  theories  I  do  not  know.  Memory  tells 
me  I  recalled  it  onlj-^  after  working  out  my 
own,  but  it  is  reasonable  to  hold  it  a  cause 
though  an  unrealized  one. 

Analytics  of  Literature,  by  L.  A.  Sherman, 
made  a  decided  impression  on  me  during  col- 
lege or  in  the  years  immediately  following. 
Undoubtedly  I  gained  much  from  it,  but  at 
present  I  am  unable  to  state  its  content  in  any 
but  the  most  vague  way  and  can  not  detect 
any  but  academic  influences  from  it,  though 


8  FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

in  this  I  may  be  doing  it  serious  injustice. 
De  Quincey's  On  the  Knocking  at  the  Gate  in 
"Macbeth"  made  vivid  the  use  of  relief 
scenes.  From  some  book  by  Brander  Mat- 
thews I  learned  that  the  short  story  should 
have  only  one  point. 

Five  years  after  college  I  read  Tolstoy's 
What  Is  Art?  Read  it  with  interest,  resent- 
ment, bewilderment  and  enthusiasm.  It  was 
the  first  real  blow  to  my  unquestioning  ac- 
ceptance of  all  the  usual  canons  of  art.  The 
impress  was  tremendous,  but,  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  my  miserable  memory,  the  only  def- 
inite, abiding  impression  I  can  identify  is  the 
emphasis  laid  on  simplicity,  with  the  corol- 
lary that  creative  work  must  reach  peasant 
appreciation  if  it  is  to  be  classed  as  art. 
Years  later  I  came  to  attach  more  and  more 
importance  to  simplicity,  arriving  at  that  atti- 
tude by  paths  leading  from  practical  experi- 
ence— laboratory  work,  as  it  were,  pat'.s  that 
to  my  vague  recollection  seem  not  at  ai:  those 
of  his  approach,  but  I  can  make  no  exact 
measure  of  the  extent  to  which  Tolstoy  may 
have  done  my  thinking  for  me  or  at  least 
influenced  it.  Probably  the  influence  is  far 
greater  than  I  realize. 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  9 

In  any  case,  the  above  are  the  total  of  the 
outside  influences.  It  is,  of  course,  impos- 
sible for  any  one  to  live  in  contact  with  his 
fellows  in  a  world  filled  with  type  and 
opinions  without  absorbing  ideas  from  others, 
but  in  the  sense  of  influences  sufficiently  def- 
inite to  make  conscious  impress  I  can  add 
nothing  to  the  above  list.  In  nearly  twenty 
years,  if  I  have  read  any  book  or  article  deal- 
ing with  the  philosophy  of  literature  I  do  not 
recall  the  title  or  the  occasion.  Five  or  six 
j-^ears  ago  I  read  a  third  or  half  of  a  book  that 
taught  the  writing  of  fiction,  but  laid  it  down 
because  it  was  too  difficult  for  me  to  under- 
stand and  seemed  not  in  accordance  with  my 
own  ideas.  I  have  never  read  any  other  text 
on  fiction  writing,  though  I  have  spun  the 
pages  of  a  number  of  them  to  gain  a  general 
idea  of  methods  and  theories,  finding  only 
the  usual  ones. 

This  lack  of  reading  authorities  was  at  first 
due  to  lack  of  time,  but  for  years  I  have  care- 
fully avoided  the  influence  of  others'  theories 
to  the  best  of  my  ability  so  that  I  should  not 
be  diverted  or  forestalled  in  an  effort  to  work 
out  my  own.  Naturally,  most  of  the  accepted 
theories   and  methods   are   current  because 


10  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

they  are  sound,  but  there  is  a  minority  of 
cases  in  which  a  dissenting  view  seems 
warranted. 

My  warrant  for  dissent  is  that  to  a  very 
great  extent  the  main  faults  (other  than  those 
due  to  lack  of  natural  ability)  in  the  fiction 
submitted  to  magazines  seem  directly  due  to 
faults  in  accepted  theories  and  methods. 
These  faults  in  theory  and  teaching  may  be 
roughly  summarized  under  two  heads: 

(1)  Assigning  to  readers  theoretical  reac- 

tions based  on  traditional  editorial 
and  critical  precepts  instead  of  bas- 
ing editorial  precepts  on  actual  reac- 
tions of  readers.  In  particular,  lack 
of  emphasis  upon  preserving  the 
illusion. 

(2)  Overwhelming  writers  with  demands 

of    technique    and    academics    and 
thereby  doing  all  possible  to  ruin  in- 
dividuality and  real  ability. 
For  getting  data  on  the  first  of  these  points 
I    have    been    exceptionally    well    situated. 
More  than  any  other  magazine  on  which  I 
have  served,  more  than  the  half  dozen  others 
under  the  same  roofs,  more,  so  far  as  I  can 
judge,    than    any   other   magazine    I   know. 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  11 

Adventure  gets  definite,  concrete  response 
and  criticism  from  its  readers.  So  far  as  the 
male  sex  is  concerned,  probably  no  other 
magazine  has  a  more  generally  representa- 
tive audience,  ranging  through  all  classes 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  brows.  The 
great  number  of  letters  and  talks  resulting 
from  this  keen  personal  interest  of  its  read- 
ers in  the  making  of  the  magazine  has  been 
invaluable  in  giving  its  editor,  for  more  than 
ten  years,  the  actual,  specific  reactions  of 
readers,  as  opposed  to  the  theoretical  reac- 
tions that  accepted  editorial  theories  assign 
to  them. 

The  overemphasis  on  technique  and  ac- 
ademics I  consider  the  most  harmful  factor 
at  work  in  the  field  of  American  fiction,  from 
both  the  literary  and  the  magazine  point  of 
view.  I  can  claim  no  special  equipment  for 
speaking  on  this  point  other  than  a  decidedly 
academic  training  followed  by  over  twenty 
years  of  practical  laboratory  work,  and  arri- 
val at  conclusions  by  abandoning  all  accepted 
precepts  and  going  back  to  the  simple 
elementals. 

The  object  of  this  book  is  not  exploitation 
of  theories  but  practical  service  to  writers  and 


12  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

would-be  writers.  It  is  aimed  directly  at  the 
faults  that  are  the  chief  causes  of  rejection  of 
manuscripts  by  magazines  and  book  houses. 
General  theories  are  used  chiefly  to  give 
foundation  and  perspective,  so  that  a  writer, 
knowing  the  general  ends  in  view,  may  be  en- 
abled to  solve  intelligently  and  consistentlj'^ 
even  those  problems  in  his  work  that  can  not 
be  covered  specifically  by  any  "book  of  rules." 
It  is  a  crying  need  that  writers  should  learn 
to  work  less  by  rule  of  thumb  and  more  from 
a  general  understanding  of  what  fiction 
really  is  and  of  what  determines  its  success. 
For  twenty  years  I  have  watched  the  flow  of 
manuscripts — more  tens  of  thousands  than  I 
like  to  remember — and  am  year  by  year  more 
convinced  that  more  embryo  writers  of  ap- 
preciable ability  are  ruined  by  an  overdose 
of  technique  at  the  hands  of  their  literary  doc- 
tors or  by  slavish  copying  of  the  work  of 
some  "successful"  writer  than  by  any  three 
other  causes  you  please  to  name. 

Technique,  naturally,  should  be  a  means, 
not  an  end.  In  most  of  the  teaching  of  the 
day  so  much  emphasis  is  placed  on  it  and 
such  large  quantities  of  it  are  shoved  down 
the  beginner's  throat,  before  he  has  developed 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  13 

himself  sufficiently  to  digest  it  instead  of 
merely  chew  it,  that  in  a  majority  of  cases  he 
loses  himself  and  his  talents  in  an  emptj'^ 
struggle  with  formulas  and  formalities.  He 
may  learn  to  chew  very  well  indeed,  but  the 
odds  are  that  he  isn't  chewing  anything  and 
that  he  has  starved  himself  to  death.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  has  ceased  to  be  himself. 

Perhaps  the  reason  for  this  overemphasis 
on  technique  is  that  those  responsible  for  the 
books,  classes  and  correspondence  courses 
designed  to  help  the  budding  fiction  writers 
are,  with  very  few  exceptions,  chiefly  theo- 
rists with  no  great  background  of  either  actual 
editorial  experience  or  an  even  fairly  consid- 
erable accomplishment  in  writing  fiction. 
Those  who  have  both,  even  a  moderate  de- 
gree of  both,  are  so  very  few  that  in  number 
they  constitute  only  a  fraction  of  a  per  cent, 
of  those  at  work  in  this  field.  The  teachers 
of  fiction,  a  good  many  of  them,  give  extreme- 
ly valuable  service,  but  the  majority  of  them 
either  approached  their  work  from  abstract 
and  academic  beginnings  or,  having  sold  fic- 
tion themselves,  built  too  much  from  their 
own  experiences,  knowing  too  little  of  the 
many  different  paths  by  which  others  must 


14  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

progress.  Both  groups  seem  to  have  been  too 
much  influenced  by  technique  and  academics 
in  general. 

The  editors,  too,  for  the  same  and  other  rea- 
sons, have  contributed  toward  making  tech- 
nique too  great  a  factor.  It  is  physically  im- 
possible to  give  individual  criticism  to  every 
manuscript  tliat  comes  in,  or,  when  given  at 
all,  to  give  it  fully  in  all  cases.  Almost  never 
are  the  reasons  for  an  acceptance  given  and 
only  in  a  general  way  at  best.  As  a  result, 
writers  in  their  early  formative  stages  are  left 
in  the  dark  unless  they  turn  to  the  other 
teachers.  Much  of  the  criticism  given  by  edi- 
tors, too,  is  academic  and  centers  on  tech- 
nique— because  that  kind  of  criticism  is  easier 
for  us  to  give.  Still  again,  we  often  mislead 
a  writer  by  failing  to  distinguish  carefully 
between  the  needs  and  likes  of  the  particular 
magazine  as  opposed  to  those  of  magazines 
in  general. 

Whatever  the  reasons  for  the  exaggerated 
part  technique  plays  in  American  fiction,  it  is 
the  chief  hope  of  this  little  book  that  it  may 
to  some  degree  counteract  this  curse  of  form- 
ula and  encourage  beginners  to  more  direct 
effort  for  individuality  and  a  more  natural 
expression  of  it. 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  15 

Perhaps  this  is  not  a  book  at  all,  but  merely 
a  collection  of  talks.  Certainly  there  is  little 
attempt  at  carefully  unified  structure.  Its 
writing  must  be  done  at  odd  moments,  for  I 
am  still  in  editorial  harness.  Also  it  will  be 
done  only  in  such  moments  and  manner  as 
make  the  writing  of  it  a  pleasure  rather  than 
a  task. 

I  use  the  pronoun  "I"  without  stint  or 
apologA^  for  that  is  the  natural  method  to  fol- 
low when  one  person  speaks  to  another  and, 
while  I  object  strenuously  to  an  author's  ob- 
trusion of  himself  into  his  fiction,  the  first 
personal  pronoun  in  books  of  exposition  is 
often  of  distinct  advantage  in  precision  as 
well  as  in  ease  and  clearness. 

Finally,  this  book  is  not  meant  for  geniuses. 
They  should  by  all  means  march  their  own 
paths,  finding  or  making  their  own  metliods, 
each  to  his  taste.  Though  this  is  a  book  of 
suggestions,  not  of  rules,  the  genius  does  not 
need  it.  But  wait, — alas!  half  my  possible 
readers  are  gone  from  me  at  the  ending  of 
that  last  sentence,  self-dismissed  as  indubit- 
able geniuses.  I'd  forgotten  that  the  writing 
world  is  composed  chiefly  of  geniuses,  most 
of  them  indubitable  and — self-dismissed. 


16  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

But  you — I  think  you'd  better  read  on  until 
you  find  stronger  reason  to  turn  away,  for,  to 
be  friendly  frank,  the  odds  are  so  very  heav- 
ily against  your  being  a  genius.  As  for  me,  I 
don't  even  know  more  than  three  or  four 
geniuses  at  the  very  most  and  you  can  be 
entirely  at  your  ease  in  my  quite  ordinary 
society. 


CHAPTER  II 


A  GENERAL  SURVEY 


Let  us  take  a  general  survey  of  what  is  to 
follow,  beginning  with  fundamentals. 

The  Art  Process. — The  art  process  of  fic- 
tion involves  three  elements — the  Material, 
the  Artist  and  the  Reader.  So  far  as  my  ex- 
perience and  observation  go,  the  Reader  is  not 
regarded  as  a  part  of  the  art  process  and  in 
both  theory  and  practise  fails  to  get  anything 
approaching  due  consideration.  For  that  rea- 
son his  part  in  the  art  process  will  receive 
full  treatment  in  this  book,  while  Material 
and  Artist,  being  already  amply  covered  in 
thousands  of  texts,  will  receive  more  cursory 
treatment.  The  reader  can,  nevertheless,  be 
made  a  complete  basis  of  both  rhetorical  and 
fictional  theory.  Almost  any  important  ele- 
ment can,  for  that  matter;  it  is  merely  a  mat- 
ter of  choosing  tlie  point  from  which  you  shall 
look  at  the  circle.    The  reader's  having  been 

17 


18  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

hitherto  shghted  in  this  respect  is  alone  suf- 
ficient reason  to  choose  him  if  for  no  other 
purpose  than  that  of  viewing  the  art  process 
from  a  new  angle  and  thereby  getting  a  more 
balanced  concept  of  it.  Personally,  I  believe 
the  reader's  angle  the  correct  one,  being  the 
final  step,  the  test  of  the  other  two. 

Philosophers  will  at  once  quarrel  with  both 
my  theory  and  my  terminology.  If  they  will 
confine  their  quarreling  to  the  field  of  philos- 
ophy, they  may  settle  the  issue  as  they  please. 
Must  a  genius  think  only,  or  at  all,  of  his  read- 
ers when  he  sits  down  to  write?  Probably  not, 
but  this  book  is  not  written  for  geniuses,  who 
need  no  rules  or  guidance  or  at  least  think 
they  do  not.  Certainly  either  genius  or  plain 
human  will  fall  into  ruin  if  he  thinks  over- 
much on  rules  and  regulations  of  any  kind 
when  he  should  be  giving  himself  up  to  creat- 
ing. But  I've  noticed  that  even  geniuses  gen- 
erally revise  their  work  after  its  first  launch- 
ing in  ink.    Why? 

Must  art  be  seen  or  heard  by  others  before 
it  can  be  art?  Naturally  I  realize  that  the 
Venus  de  Milo  was  a  work  of  art  before  it  was 
dug  up,  but  what  of  that?  It  was  only  a  po- 
tential work  of  art  from  any  practical  point 


A   GENERAL   SURVEY  19 

of  view  and  of  no  good  to  any  one  until 
brought  where  material  and  the  artist's  work 
on  the  material  could  continue  and  complete 
the  process  by  creating  in  human  beings  the 
thoughts  and  emotions  they  strove  to  express. 
In  that  word  "express,"  by  the  way,  lies  the 
whole  divergence  of  theory.  Theories  have 
made  it  practically  subjective  only,  ignoring 
its  objective  side — the  recipient.  Can  you, 
outside  the  most  abstract  abstractions  of 
philosophy,  express  anything  without  express- 
ing it  to  some  one  ?  If  you  think  you  can,  how 
are  you  going  to  be  sure  that  you  have  ex- 
pressed it?  Who  is  to  be  the  judge  on  tliis 
point?  You,  the  artist,  alone?  Perhaps  the 
philosophers  can  show  me  my  position  is  un- 
tenable, but  they  can't  show  me  one  single 
fiction  editor  in  all  the  world  who  wouldn't 
throw  up  his  hands  in  despair  at  the  very 
idea  of  letting  every  "artist"  be  the  judge  as 
to  whether  he  had  expressed  what  he  thought 
he  had  expressed.  Even  non-editors,  who 
haven't  been  tortured  by  the  mistaken  idea  of 
"artists"  that  they  have  succeeded  in  expres- 
sion, would  be  more  than  slow  to  admit  the 
artists  themselves  as  competent  judges  or  to 
abide  by  the  artists'  judgments. 


20  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

Consigning  abstraction  to  the  background, 
you  are  a  fool  if  you  put  into  material  what 
no  one  else  can  get  out  of  it.  And  I'd  say 
that  you  were  not  a  genius,  the  two  terms  not 
being  mutually  exclusive,  for  a  genius — at 
least  all  whom  the  world  has  been  able  to 
discover — does  not  fail  to  convey  his  message 
to  at  least  a  few. 

To  how  many  people  and  to  what  grades  of 
intelligence  must  the  artist  convey  his  mes- 
sage in  order  to  prove  himself  an  artist?  I  do 
not  know.  Neither,  I  think,  does  anybody 
else.  There  seems  almost  equal  disagreement 
as  to  the  character  and  quality  of  the  mes- 
sage to  be  conveyed.  But  I  can  see  no  doubt 
that  some  message  must  be  conveyed  to  some- 
body and  it  would  seem  that  the  greater  and 
better  the  message  and  the  more  the  recipi- 
ents, the  more  successful  is  the  work  of  art. 

On  the  practical  basis  that  the  would-be 
fictionist  wishes  to  sell  his  fiction  to  the  maga- 
zine or  book  houses,  it  follows  naturally  that 
as  a  first  step  his  success  will  be  measured  by 
the  number  of  people  to  whom  he  is  able  to 
convey  his  message,  the  thought  and  feeling 
he  desires  to  express.  After  reaching  them, 
it  of  course  becomes  a  question  of  the  quality 


A  GENERAL   SURVEY  21 

of  his  message,  but  that  qiiahty  can  be  known 
only  b}-^  those  readers  reached  by  it.  It  be- 
comes a  question,  also,  of  the  degree  to  which 
he  reaches  them. 

But  first,  and  most  of  all,  he  must  reach 
them. 

Clearness. — It  follows  that  the  prime  essen- 
tial is  clearness.  If  they  are  to  get  his  mes- 
sage at  all,  they  must  be  able  to  understand 
what  he  says.  If  they  are  to  get  it  fully,  he 
must  express  exactly  what  he  means  and  do 
so  in  such  manner  that  they  will  understand 
it  exactly  as  he  means  it.  This  may  seem  too 
elementary  for  consideration.  It  isn't.  The 
theory  is  readily  admitted  but  not  sufficiently 
practised.  The  guiltiest  are  often  the  most 
unconscious  of  their  guilt,  for  it  is  a  common 
serious  failing  of  writers  to  believe  that  be- 
cause they  have  made  things  plain  to  them- 
selves they  have  made  them  plain  to  others. 

Clearness  is  not  merely  a  question  of  unam- 
biguous sentences,  though  the  majority  of 
writers  do  not  successfully  mount  even  that 
simple  hurdle.  Clearness  includes  supplying 
all  necessary  details,  suppressing  the  unneces- 
sary ones,  giving  to  each  the  proportionate 
ejnphasis  you  wish  the  reader  to  give  to  it 


22  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

and  seeing  to  it  that  his  response  is  exact,  and 
so  shaping  your  presentation  of  the  story  that 
the  reader  must  follow  the  exact  path  you 
have  mapped  out  for  him. 

Other  Essentials. — A  valuable  accessory  in 
attaining  clearness  is  simplicity.  But  most 
writers  abhor  simplicity,  apparently  because 
being  simple  seems  to  them  to  ruin  their 
chance  of  being  "literarj^" 

Clearness,  simplicity,  force,  but  the  last  two 
of  this  old  triology  of  the  rhetorics  are  really 
included  under  clearness  in  its  full  meaning. 
So,  too,  perhaps,  are  unity  and  structure.  In 
any  case,  all  are  necessary  in  getting  the  writ- 
er's message  to  his  readers. 

Shall  I  sound  hopelessly  elementary  and 
banal  when  I  say  that,  to  register  his  message 
in  full  force,  the  author  must  enlist  his  read- 
er's sympathies?  Yet  the  majority  of  those 
who  attempt  fiction  either  give  this  necessity 
no  thought  or  are  unbelievably  crude  and 
stupid,  not  only  missing  chance  after  chance 
to  secure  this  sympathy,  but  continually  and 
needlessly  alienating  it.  I  do  not  use  "sym- 
pathy" in  its  sugary  sense,  but  shall  attempt 
no  exact  definition  in  this  chapter  of  prelim- 
inary survey. 


A  GENERAL   SURVEY  23 

As  essentials  for  the  securing  of  the  read- 
er's sympathies  may  be  included  unity  and 
structure — in  some  of  their  phases  more  prop- 
erly included  here  than  under  clearness. 

Also,  he  must  economize  his  reader — care- 
fully regulate  demands  on  attention,  thought 
and  feelings  according  to  a  human  being's 
normal  ability  to  respond  as  well  as  accord- 
ing to  the  varjdng  needs  of  different  parts  of 
the  tale. 

The  Illusion. — ^Lastly,  to  convey  his  mes- 
sage fully,  he  must  impose  and  preserve  the 
illusion  of  his  story.  In  this  are  really  in- 
cluded all  the  necessities  named,  even  clear- 
ness. And,  I  think,  all  necessities  that  can  be 
named.  This,  it  may  be  said,  is  fiction — the 
imposing  and  preserving  of  an  illusion.  I 
make  it  the  basis  of  this  book  because  it  offers 
what  seems  at  present  the  angle  of  approach 
most  needed  in  teaching  the  successful  writ- 
ing of  stories,  in  correcting  the  faults  most 
common  and  most  fatal,  and  in  providing 
writers  with  a  consistent  and  comprehensive 
theory  that  they  can  apply  to  their  needs  and 
problems  as  these  arise. 

Itself  a  return  to  the  solid  foundation  of 
underlying  clcmentals,  it  has  the  very  practi- 


24  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

cal  merit  of  compelling  writers  to  make  the 
elementals  the  constant  test  of  their  work. 
Necessarily  involving  a  constant  and  careful 
consideration  of  the  reader,  it  seems  the  best 
remedy  for  the  greatest  weakness  in  fiction 
writing — the  tendency  to  limit  the  art  process 
to  the  second  of  its  three  steps,  Material, 
Artist  and  Reader.  If  the  third  step  can  be 
helped  to  its  due  share  of  attention,  the  first 
step  can  wait  its  turn,  at  least  so  far  as  the 
successful  writing  of  magazine  and  ordinary 
book  fiction  is  concerned. 

Do  I  then  mean  that  the  prime  object  of  fic- 
tion is  the  imposing  of  an  illusion?  That 
here  lies  the  test  of  fiction?  That  no  fiction 
is  written  or  read  or  valued  except  for  its  suc- 
cess in  creating  an  illusion?  The  imposing  of 
an  illusion  is  the  object  and  test  of  fiction  as 
fiction.  Fiction  serves  many  purposes.  It 
may  teach  something,  show  something,  what 
you  please.  But  for  these  things  it  is  only  a 
vehicle,  and  the  test  of  it  as  a  vehicle  lies  in 
its  success  at  imposing  an  illusion. 

As  to  whether  my  theory  of  fiction  is  "new" 
and  "revolutionary"  I  can  offer  only  that  it 
was  new  to  my  experience  and  revolutionary 
only  in  that,  in  the  actual  editorial  work  of 


A   GENERAL   SUR\^Y  25 

helping  writers  develop  their  abihties  for  fic- 
tion, it  has  seemed  to  effect  results  that  no 
other  theory  was  able  to  effect.  I  might  add, 
also,  that  the  fiction  department  of  a  Coast 
University,  having  come  across  some  of  my 
correspondence  with  contributors,  wrote  me 
that  the  fully  developed  principle  of  preserv- 
ing the  illusion  had  not,  to  their  knowledge, 
been  elsewhere  advanced,  that  they  had 
adopted  it  as  a  regular  part  of  their  course, 
and  that  it  had  satisfactorily  stood  the  test  of 
several  j^ears.  On  tlie  other  hand  I  have 
learned,  even  since  the  actual  writing  of  this 
book  was  begun,  that  for  several  years  Doctor 
Dorothy  Scarborough  has  taught  this  prin- 
ciple to  her  classes  in  short-story  writing  in 
Columbia  University. 

As  to  the  newness  of  dividing  the  art  pro- 
cess into  the  three  steps  of  Material,  Artist, 
Reader,  I  can  not  say.  So  far  as  I  know,  it  is 
my  own  idea,  the  joining  together  of  two  lines 
of  thought  on  which  I  had  been  working.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  should  be  amazed  if  others 
had  not  previously  advanced  tlie  same  theory. 

Literature  vs.  Magazine  Fiction. — What  dis- 
tinction do  I  make  between  literature  and 
magazine   fiction?     In   fundamentals,   none. 


26  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

Only  a  small  percentage  of  magazine  fiction 
is  literature  in  the  distinctive  sense  of  that 
term.  That  so  little  of  it  is  literature  is  partly 
due  to  the  arbitrary  and  entirely  non-literary 
restrictions  imposed  by  the  magazines  with 
their  various  aims  as  to  types  of  audience. 
Some  will  not  accept  unhappy  endings,  some 
bar  sex  questions,  some  use  no  stories  of  for- 
eign lands,  some  demand  action,  some  permit 
no  mention  of  drink  or  tobacco,  some  will 
have  no  "problems,"  some  require  a  breezy, 
sophisticated  style,  some  must  have  this,  some 
abhor  that.  Most  writers  must  sell  what  they 
write  or  stop  writing  through  lack  of  means 
or  lack  of  tenacity.  Naturally  they  generally 
strive  to  make  their  goods  acceptable  to  the 
market,  writing  with  a  careful  eye  on  the  likes 
and  dislikes  of  the  magazines  and  all  the 
more  harassed  and  limited  because  what  is 
one  magazine's  meat  is  another  magazine's 
poison. 

Some,  like  Sinclair  Lewis,  Talbot  Mundy 
and  others,  fully  realizing  the  situation  and 
keeping  their  heads,  write  what  they  know 
will  sell,  write  it  as  well  as  they  can  under  the 
limitations,  and  keep  on  writing  it  until  they 
have  attained  sufficient  standing  and  finan- 


A  GENERAL   SUR\'EY  27 

cial  foundation — and  sufficient  mastery — to 
write  what  they  wish  and  in  the  way  they 
wish.  But  the  vast  majority  become  perma- 
nent slaves  in  the  galley  where  they  must  serve 
their  apprenticeship,  perhaps  growing  very 
skilful  in  handling  one  oar  among  the  many 
oars  but  hopelessly  unable  to  paddle  their 
own  canoe. 

If  money  success  is  essential  or  preferred, 
by  all  means  draw  a  sharp  distinction  be- 
tween literature  and  magazine  fiction  and, 
unless  you  are  quite  sure  your  talents  are 
considerable,  confine  yourself  to  the  latter. 
On  the  other  hand,  granted  sufficient  ability, 
aiming  at  the  former  may  very  well  carry  you 
further  in  every  way.  If  what  you  wish  is, 
regardless  of  worldly  success,  to  write  the 
best  that  in  j^ou  lies,  forget  everything  else, 
including  the  restrictions  of  the  magazines. 

Another  cause  of  the  scarcity  of  literature 
In  magazine  fiction  is  that  writers,  editors 
and  readers  become  obsessed  with  fads,  gen- 
erally of  a  superficial  nature,  as  to  style,  or 
treatment,  or  types  of  material.  Underneath 
this  is  a  more  fundamental  cause — the  habit 
of  imitation.  O.  Henry  wrote  and  died  and 
even  yet  the  mails  are  full  of  manuscripts 


28  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

from  writers  who  are  trying  to  write  0.  Henry 
stories — and  can't,  for  the  simple  and  ever- 
lasting reason  that  no  one  of  them  is  O. 
Henry.  Every  John  Smith  of  them  would  do 
better  work  if  he  wrote  John  Smith  stories, 
but  lots  of  them  are  still  selling  O.  Henry 
stories  because  editors  too  are  still  under  the 
O.  Henry  spell  or  know  that  many  of  their 
readers  are.  Kipling,  Doyle,  James  and  other 
famous  authors  have  each  their  army  of  imi- 
tators, many  a  sheep-like  soldier  serving  in 
several  armies  at  *Dnce. 

Nor  do  the  imitators  always  aim  so  mgh. 
A.ny  writer  popular  in  the  magazines,  no  mat- 
ter how  ephemeral  his  vogue,  serves  them 
almost  equally  well.  The  lowest  depths  are 
reached  when  the  model  is  no  one  in  par- 
ticular but  merely  a  composite  of  all  that  is 
most  hack  and  usual  on  the  printed  page. 

Not  long  ago  there  arose  again  the  fad  of 
beginning  a  story  with  a  paragraph  of  philos- 
ophy. It  has  spread  like  a  disease  and,  I 
think,  is  one.  There  were — or  are — the  era 
of  glittering  sophistication  in  style,  the  Dolly 
Dialogues  and  Prisoner  of  Zenda  eras, 
doublet  and  hose,  business,  sex,  Stevensonian 
X"hythm,  and  so  on. 


X  GENERAL  SURVEY  29 

But  all  these  fads  and  other  limitations 
serve  only  to  lower  the  proportion  of  litera- 
ture in  magazine  fiction.  Neither  they  nor 
anything  else  creates  any  fundamental  differ- 
ence between  the  two.  Both  are  fiction,  both 
subject  to  the  laws  of  fiction.  And  even  that 
magazine  fiction  beyond  the  pale  of  litera- 
ture is  aimed,  somehow,  at  the  reader  and  is 
to  be  judged  on  that  basis. 


CHAPTER  III 

CREATING  THE   ILLUSION 

By  creating  the  illusion  I  mean  making  the 
reader  forget  the  world  he  really  lives  in  and 
carrying  him  into  the  world  of  the  story, 
either  identifying  himself  with  one  of  the 
characters  or  looking  on  and  listening  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  what  he  sees  and  hears. 
The  illusion  is  wholly  successful,  fully  effec- 
tive, only  if  the  reader  is  made  to  live  alto- 
gether in  the  story  world.  He  must  forget 
that  he  is  a  reader,  that  he  holds  a  book  or 
magazine  in  his  hands,  that  the  story  is 
.merely  a  stoiy  instead  of  actual  happening. 
He  inust  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
an  author;  he  must  forget  the  method  and 
manner  of  telling  in  the  telling  itself.  He 
must  live  the  story. 

The  Illusion  and  Its  Hold. — Naturally  per- 
fection of  illusion  is  not  generally  attained, 
and  naturally  what  holds  some  readers  in 
30 


CREATING   THE   ILLUSION  31 

thrall  may  not  hold  others.  The  more  sophis- 
ticated the  reader,  the  more  difficult,  other 
things  being  equal,  to  make  him  lose  himself 
utterly  in  the  story.  Probably,  too,  the  more 
fiction  one  has  read,  the  less  readily  is  one 
swept  away  into  the  story's  spell.  The  same 
obstructions  hold  in  any  art,  or  in  eating  or 
any  other  pleasure.  The  penalty  of  sophisti- 
cation in  anything  is  further  removal  from 
the  direct,  elemental  appeal.  The  penalty  of 
satiety  and  overuse  is  a  dulling  of  response. 
But  these  facts  do  not  alter  the  matter  of 
what  the  appeal  is. 

But  do  not  the  sophisticated  get  more  out 
of  fiction — out  of  the  "highbrow"  fiction  they 
tend  toward — than  do  the  unsophisticated 
out  of  the  same  fiction?  Get  more  what? 
More  of  the  finer  shadings  undoubtedly,  but 
less  of  the  elemental  appeal.  And  is  it  really 
fiction  they  are  reading  or  something  else 
mixed  with  fiction,  and  is  it  from  fiction  or 
other  things  they  draw  pleasure  or  edifica- 
tion? Their  attitude  is  at  least  partly  that  of 
a  critic  rather  than  a  recipient;  their  interest 
in  "What  is  happening"  is  at  least  partly  dis- 
tracted to  "how  it  is  written."  From  fiction 
itself,  from  fiction  as  fiction,  the  unsophisti- 


32  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

cated,  granting  them  understanding  of  the 
words  they  read,  in  most  cases  get  a  greater 
intensity  of  appeal  than  do  the  others. 
Understand,  I  am  speaking  not  of  general 
sophistication  but  of  sophistication  in  fiction. 

Fiction  a  Vehicle. — As  you  run  over  in  your 
mind  various  writers  of  acknowledged  rank 
you  may  feel  that,  in  face  of  that  rank,  illu- 
sion is  an  unsound  basis  of  test  and  compari- 
son. The  stumbling-block  is  that  much  of 
what  we  call  fiction  is  not  pure  fiction  but  a 
hybrid,  a  cross,  a  half-breed  or  even  a  quad- 
roon— fiction  plus  an  essay,  treatise,  study, 
sermon,  analysis,  philosophy,  satire,  propa- 
ganda, a  performance  in  technique,  an  exhi- 
bition of  style,  what  you  will.  It  is  often  the 
other  element  or  elements,  or  the  combina- 
tion of  elements,  that  appeals  and  that  gives 
rank  and  value.  There  is  no  reason  why 
writings  should  not  be  read  and  written  for 
the  sake  of  these  other  elements  or  of  the 
combinations,  but  such  writings  are  not  pure 
fiction. 

In  such  cases  fiction  is  used  not  for  itself 
alone  but  as  a  vehicle  for  something  else. 
The  wagon  and  its  load  may  be  more  pleas- 
ing and  valuable  than  the  wagon  alone,  but 


CREATING  THE    ILLUSION  33 

only  the  wagon  is  fiction  and  therefore  it  is 
with  the  wagon  alone  that  we  are  now  con- 
cerned. No  matter  how  good  the  load  may 
be,  you  can  not  carry  it  unless  you  can  build 
and  drive  a  good  wagon.  Probably  the  ma- 
jority of  writers  will  profit  most  by  giving 
their  whole  attention  to  the  wagon,  partly  be- 
cause they  haven't  a  sufficiently  valuable 
load  to  put  in  it  and  partly  because  they  need 
their  undivided  effort  to  make  the  wagon  fit 
to  carry  anything.  Certainly  it  is  sound  for 
ninety-odd  per  cent,  of  fiction  writers  to  mas- 
ter their  vehicle  before  they  attempt  hauling 
messages  and  information  in  it. 

This  book  deals  with  straight  fiction  only. 
Straight  fiction  may  of  course  include  analy- 
sis, philosoph3%  technique,  information  and 
all  the  other  things  for  which  it  is  so  often 
made  the  vehicle,  but  if  it  is  to  remain  straight 
fiction,  these  must  be  really  integral  and 
necessary  parts  of  it — analysis  of  or  by  the 
characters  themselves,  the  information  inher- 
ent in  the  material,  the  technique  necessary 
for  presentation,  the  philosophy  of  a  charac- 
ter, locality  or  nation.  Having  sufficiently 
mastered  straight  fiction,  a  writer  is  infinitely 
more  likely  to  be  successful  in  registering  on 


34  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

his  readers  whatever  it  is  he  may  wish  to 
convey  through  fiction  as  a  vehicle.  His  mes- 
sage may  be  so  interesting  or  important  that 
people  will  seize  upon  it  eagerly,  no  matter 
how  crude  or  weak  the  fiction-vehicle  may 
be,  but  it  would  reach  them  all  the  more 
strongly  if  the  vehicle  were  a  competent 
carrier. 

Illusion  the  Essence  of  Fiction. — The  very 
essence  of  straight  fiction  is  the  creation  and 
maintenance  of  an  illusion.  That  this  truth 
has  been  so  largely  lost  sight  of  is  due  largely 
to  the  frequent  mixture  of  fiction  with  other 
things,  so  that  the  mixture,  instead  of  fiction 
itself,  has  tended  to  become  the  model  and 
standard.  If  American  writers  are  to  make 
more  rapid  progress  toward  real  success,  they 
would  do  well  to  segregate  fiction  and  study 
it  for  itself  alone. 

Illusion  Easily  Shattered. — Successful  illu- 
sion depends  on  an  infinite  variety  of  things, 
is  as  sensitive  to  breakage  as  is  a  bubble  and, 
once  broken,  though  it  can  be  again  created, 
its  strength  is  irremediably  impaired.  A 
writer  of  any  merit  can  impose  his  illusion, 
yet  often  he  does  so  apparently  through  in- 
stinct only,  without  evidence  of  carefully  con- 


CREATING  THE    ILLUSION  35 

eidered  knowledge  and  intent.  Certainly  it  is 
maddeningly  common  to  see  him  again  and 
again  destroy  his  illusion,  if  only  temporarily, 
with  some  "little"  flaw  that  would  almost  un- 
consciously be  avoided  if  he  had  clear  con- 
ception of  the  fundamental  importance  of 
perfect  and  uninterrupted  illusion. 

The  importance  of  maintenance  of  illusion 
can  not  be  too  much  stressed.  As  a  reader  can 
you  keep  yourself  within  the  spell  of  a  story 
you  are  reading  if  you  are  subject  to  constant 
physical  interruptions — conversation  directed 
at  you,  people  coming  in  and  going  out,  loud 
and  sudden  noises?  No  more  can  a  reader 
keep  himself  within  the  spell  of  a  story  if  he 
is  subject  to  constant  interruptions  from  with- 
in the  story  itself.  How  can  a  story  maintain 
its  spell  over  j^ou  if  you  are  again  and  again 
reminded  by  its  text  that  it  is,  after  all,  only 
a  story,  somebody's  words  typed  on  the  pages 
of  a  magazine  you  bought  at  the  corner  stand? 

Costliness  of  Breaking  the  Illusion. — Each 
such  interruption  or  reminder  does  its  share 
in  wrecking  the  illusion,  each  compels  the 
story  to  begin  over  again  in  the  business  of 
making  you  forget  your  world  in  its  world, 
each  leaves  the  remainder  of  the  illusion  the 


36  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

weaker.  Even  a  single  one  in  a  story  works 
very  appreciable  damage  to  the  illusion  as  a 
whole,  lessens  the  net  result  of  the  story's 
impact  upon  readers.  Instead  of  the  story's 
registering  one  hundred  per  cent,  of  its  value, 
it  is,  as  a  result  of  a  single  break  in  its  illusion, 
likely  to  register,  not  ninety-eight  or  ninety- 
five  per  cent.,  but  eighty-five  or  seventy  or 
sixty  per  cent.  There  can,  of  course,  be  no 
exact  measure  of  the  loss  in  the  story's  effec- 
tiveness, of  the  amount  of  failure  in  the  third 
step  of  the  art  process,  but  very  surely  this 
loss  is  almost  universally  underestimated  or 
altogether  ignored. 

Whatever  the  value  of  your  stoi-y  as  fic- 
tion, you  can  not  afford  to  have  its  one  hun- 
dred per  cent,  reduced  even  five  per  cent,  in 
its  register  upon  your  reader,  and  the  instant 
you  remind  him  that  he  is  still  merely  himself 
in  his  same  old  world — or,  even  worse,  make 
him  momentaril}'^  a  critic  instead  of  a  reader 
— you  seriously  damage  the  illusion  and  les- 
sen your  story's  effect.  The  break  may 
occupy  only  a  fraction  of  a  second's  time,  the 
reader,  after  a  few  paragraphs  may  forget  all 
about  the  break,  may  even  be  wholly  uncon- 
scious at  the  time  of  its  effect  upon  him,  but 


CREATING   THE    ILLUSION  37 

the  harm  has  been  done  nevertheless.  It  can 
be  no  comfort  to  the  writer  that  the  reader 
doesn't  know  why  the  stoiy  failed  to  register 
its  full  strength;  the  important  point  is  that  it 
did  fail. 

Some  breaks  in  the  illusion  accomplish 
even  more  harm  than  letting  the  reader  es- 
cape from  the  storj^'s  spell,  since  it  is  always 
so  easily  possible  to  lose  a  reader's  sympa- 
thies or,  worse,  let  him  fall  into  a  critical 
attitude,  or,  worst  of  all,  cause  him  irritation 
or  arouse  his  hostility.  If,  in  reaching  the 
reader,  a  story  loses  part  of  its  value  by 
merely  letting  him  get  from  under  its  spell, 
the  loss  is  still  greater  if  it  loses  his  sympa- 
thies, for  even  when  he  is  again  brought 
under  its  spell  he  can  not  possibly  be  so 
wholly  given  over  to  it  as  he  was  before.  If 
you  have  made  of  him  a  critic — well,  how 
much  sympathy  has  a  critic?  If  you  have 
irritated  him,  naturally  j^our  chances  of 
pleasing  him  are  sadly  diminished,  since  you 
must  overcome  a  heavy  handicap  before  j'^ou 
can  even  begin  to  do  so.  And  if  you  have 
made  him  your  enemy,  you  may  as  well  bid 
farewell  to  any  chance  of  your  story's  suc- 
cess.   No  matter  how  good  the  first  two  steps 

209S30 


38  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

of  that  story's  art  process — Material,  Writer 
— if  the  third  step — Reader — can  not  be 
taken,  then  nothing  has  been  completed  ex- 
cept an  unrealized  potentiality. 

Need  of  Emphasizing  the  llhision. — And 
yet,  when  it  comes  to  the  actual  writing  of 
fiction  these  practical,  common-sense,  vital 
f&cts  are  unrecognized  or  forgotten  to  an 
almost  unbelievable  degree.  Day  after  day 
the  magazine  offices  are  rejecting  manu- 
scripts that  would  have  been  accepted  but  for 
the  failure  of  illusion.  Generally  the  editor 
calls  it  "unconvincingness."  Year  after  year 
class-room  and  text-book  go  on  teaching  plot, 
style,  characterization  that  go  for  naught  if 
they  are  unable  to  register  upon  the  reader. 
Year  after  yesiV  writers,  oppressed  with  rules 
and  abstractions,  laboriously  build  pieces  of 
m:achinery  and  expect  readers  to  take  these 
obvious,  clanking  collections  of  bolts,  girders, 
wheels  and  cogs  for  something  that  is  alive. 
Why  not?  They've  been  taught  to  consider 
only  the  making  of  a  perfect  machine  accord- 
ing to  formula.  They  find  the  magazines 
heavily  laden  with  machines  and  are  the  more 
convinced  that  machinery  is  the  ultimate  at- 
tainment.    Little  teaching  do  they  get  that 


CREATING   THE    ILLUSION  39 

helps  them  put  the  hreath  of  Hfe  into  their 
stories  or  gives  them  the  habit  of  seeing  also 
from  the  reader's  point  of  view !  They  "try  it 
on  their  friends" — God  save  the  mark ! — their 
friends  respond  or  pretend  to  and  the  prob- 
lem of  the  reader,  if  it  arose  at  all,  is  satisfac- 
torily settled  for  all  time. 

But  mustn't  they  be  taught  plot,  etc.?  Of 
course.  But  plot,  etc.,  are  merely  tools.  A 
man  may  be  passing  skilful  in  the  handling 
of  chisel  and  mallet  yet  fail  dismally  as  a 
sculptor.  Plot,  etc.,  are  necessary,  but  they 
must  be  taught,  not  as  abstractions,  but  as 
reasoned  and  reasonable  outgrowths  of  some- 
thing more  vital  than  they. 

Individuality  Crushed  by  Rules. — Some 
writers  escape  from  the  net  or  are  too  big  to 
be  caught  in  it.  These  are  in  a  painful  minor- 
ity. The  tragedy  is  in  the  host  of  those  who 
had  sufficient  talent  and  individuality  for  a 
moderate  success  but  never  attain  it  because 
their  talent  is  diverted  to  formulas  and  their 
individuality  crushed  by  academics. 
'  Those  who  escape  do  so  generally  through 
either  disgust  or  despair.  They  sweep  the 
rules  away  or  turn  their  backs  upon  them  and 
' — go  ahead  on  their  own.     One  advantage 


40  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

gained  thereby  is  instant,  inevitable,  auto- 
matic, for  they  have  uiade  an  all-important 
step  forward — being  no  longer  ridden  and 
haunted  by  formulas  and  rules,  the  writer  at 
last  has  a  chance  to  live  the  illusion  of  his 
own  story  and  therefore  a  far  better  chance 
of  making  the  reader  live  it. 

The  following  is  part  of  a  letter  from  a 
writer  who  appears  in  The  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  McClure's  and  other  magazines  of  that 
grade.  Years  ago  he  used  to  send  me  well- 
made  but  colorless  and  formal  stories.  Dur- 
ing some  of  the  years  between  he  had  done 
no  writing.  Then  he  sent  me  one  of  the  new 
kind.  Amazed  at  the  remarkable  improve- 
ment in  his  work,  I  asked  him  what  had  hap- 
pened. In  his  reply  the  omitted  name  is  that 
of  a  magazine: 

In  those  days  I  was  rigidly  following  the 

rules  of  what  I  call  the  school  of  the 

American  short  story. 

stories  and  the  stories  of  the  school 

which  it  dominated,  were  all  like  Fords.  They 
were  of  limited  horsepower,  neat,  trim  and 
shiny,  taking  up  very  little  road  space,  struc- 
turally correct  and  all  following  the  blue- 
print without  the  slightest  deviation.  There 
weren't  any  big  powerful  Cadillacs  zipping 
along,  or  any  dirty,  greasy  trucks  hauling 
huge  burdens  and  disturbing  and  upsetting 


CREATING  THE   ILLUSION  41 

the  normal  run  of  things.  It  was  an  endless 
highway  just  jammed  with  Fords. 

The story,  from  a  standpoint  of  con- 
struction, was  astonishingly  well  done.  It 
had  a  beginning,  a  middle  and  an  end,  but 
few  intestines  anywhere  along  the  route.  The 
workmanship  was  wonderful.  It  was  aston- 
ishing how  many  people  there  were  who 
could  write  such  beautiful  English.  There 
was  one  punch,  one  climax,  which  was  very 
carefully  led  up  to,  and  that  was  all. 

Well,  I  tried  to  follow  the  rules  as  appar- 
ently laid  down.  I  agonized  over  each  word 
and  sentence  to  get  'em  just  exactly  right.  I 
have  sat  at  my  tj^pewriter  for  an  hour  to  get 
just  the  few  syllables  that  their  standards 
seemed  to  demand. 

The  Hades  of  it  was  that  the  reader  was  be- 
ing cheated  all  the  time.  He  got  a  lot  of  very 
fine  writing,  but  not  much  story.  It  was  like 
sitting  down  to  a  dinner  where  the  appoint- 
ments were  perfect,  the  water  clear  and  ice- 
cold,  the  napery  thick,  the  glassware  thin, 
flowers  on  the  table,  an  orchestra,  perfect 
service,  and  not  enough  food  for  a  canarj^- 
bird.  In  other  words,  a  race  of  bird-shot 
stylists  was  being  propagated  who  could  write 
beautifully  about  an  ant-hill  but  hadn't  the 
equipment  to  do  anything  for  a  mountain. 

I  trailed  along  because  I  didn't  know  any 
better  and  because  I  hadn't  been  waked  up 
and  sliaken  down.  I  had  lived,  but  I  had  not 
assimilated  and  correlated  my  experiences. 

Now  his  present  method,  and  if  your  nose 
is  inclined  to  turn  up  at  his  idea  of  style, 
before  you  let  it,  make   very  sure   that  he 


42  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

hasn't  taken  the  one  sure  road  to  the  only 
kind  of  style  worth  any  one's  having.  And 
note  carefully  what  he  says  about  the  outside 
of  the  motor-car: 

I  try  to  give  the  reader  a  lot  for  his  money. 
I  don't  try  to  do  any  fine  writing.  Only  one 
of  a  million  of  us  can  be  a  polished  stylist. 
I'm  not  that  one,  but  I  think  I  can  evolve  a 
story  and  tell  it.  So  there  is  no  more  agoniz- 
ing about  the  style.  I  try  not  to  make  the  out- 
side of  the  motor-car  which  bears  mj-^  people 
all  gold  and  shiny  and  flower-decked  so  that 
the  countryside  will  look  at  the  car,  and  not 
at  those  it  contains.  I  just  try  to  make  it  a 
good,  suitable,  unobtrusive  vehicle  which  will 
start  and  get  to  the  journey's  end  without  any 
tire  trouble  or  backfires.  I  try  to  imagine 
real  people — very  often  they  are  friends  and 
acquaintances  whose  mental  reactions  I  have 
noted  under  circumstances  similar  to  those 
described  in  the  yarn.  And  I  try  to  visualize 
every  important  scene  before  I  set  it  down. 
That  is,  I  shut  my  eyes  and  see  the  people  as 
though  I  were  looking  at  a  scene  from  a  play. 

And  it's  just  a  joy,  under  those  conditions, 
to  write.  To  go  to  my  machine  with  the  keen- 
est anticipation.  It  is  the  finest  sort  of  an 
adventure  to  translate  a  good  stoiy  and  send 
it  on  its  way.  I  write  much  more  easily  and 
I  think  less  artificially  than  in  those  days  of 
deadly  correctness — and  dullness. 

There  are  thousands  of  other  cases — 
proved,  not  yet  proved  or  never  to  be  proved 
— of  writers   whose   individuality  has   been 


CREATING  THE   ILLUSION  43 

crushed  out  or  whose  success  has  been  pre- 
vented or  delayed  by  the  present  academic 
and  unhuman  methods  of  teaching  the  writ- 
ing of  fiction,  by  forgetting  the  illusion  and 
the  reader  for  the  sake  of  the  means  of  secur- 
ing them.  Here  is  an  example  so  extreme 
that  it  must  in  fairness  to  other  teachers  of 
fiction  be  labeled  as  the  last  word  in  formula. 
It  is,  nevertheless,  only  the  usual  method 
fully  and  relentlessly  developed.  It  is  taken 
word  for  word  from  the  teacher's  printed 
statement  of  his  "mathematical  rule"  for 
plot: 

If  the  thread  A,  or  viewpoint  character,  fig- 
ures with  the  thread  B  in  an  opening  incident 
of  numerical  order  "n"  there  must  follow 
rapidly  after  the  opening  of  the  story  an  inci- 
dent n-plus-1  involving  threads  A  and  C,  an 
incident  n-plus-2  involving  threads  A  and  D, 
an  incident  n-plus-3  involving  threads  A  and 
E,  and  so  on,  up  to  perhaps  at  least  n-plus-4 
or  n-plus-5;  and  furthermore,  n  must  pro- 
duce n-plus-1,  n-plus-2  must  be  the  result  of 
n-plus-1,  n-plus-3  must  be  the  result  of  n-plus- 
2,  and  so  on. 

That  formula  is,  I  dare  say,  sound  and,  if 
sound,  undoubtedly  useful.  The  teacher  sells 
his  own  stories  regularly  to  magazines  and, 
as   he  is  an  apparently  successful   teacher. 


44  FUNDAMENTALS  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

probably  numerous  pupils  of  his  are  doing 
the  same.  (It  is  stated  that  his  output  for  the 
last  five  years  was  about  one  milhon  words, 
with  sales  of  about  ninety-six  per  cent.)  Yet 
I  think  you  will  agree  that  his  formula  leaves 
something  to  be  desired. 

If  I  have  talked  overlong  of  Reader  and 
Illusion  in  their  general  aspect  it  is  because  I 
have  found  that,  while  some  writers  grasp  the 
idea  at  once,  a  minority  seem  incapable  of 
seeing  any  possibility  of  difference  between 
what  a  writer  intends  the  reader  to  get  and 
what  the  reader  really  does  get,  incapable  of 
believing  that  they  have  not  expressed  in  full 
and  with  perfect  exactness  all  that  they  saw 
and  know  and  felt  when  writing,  and  incap- 
able of  conceiving  any  reader  who  would  not 
be  spell-bound  by  their  stories  and  in  full 
sympathy  with  every  shading  and  inflection 
whether  real,  imagined  or  flatly  reversed  in 
expression. 

The  interrupters  and  destroyers  of  illusion 
are  almost  infinite  in  variety  and  number. 
The  means  of  avoiding  them,  indeed,  consti- 
tute a  complete  set  of  working  rules  for  the 
writing  of  fiction — better  still,  a  basis  from 
which  a  writer  can  draw  his  own  rules  to 


CREATING  THE   ILLUSION  45 

meet  all  occasions  as  they  arise.  They  may 
be  very  roughly  divided  into  classes,  the 
small,  cruder  interruptions  that  are  compara- 
tively detached  and  temporary  and  the  more 
fundamental,  organic  and  permanent  ones. 
Most  of  the  latter  being  treated,  though  from 
a  different  point  of  view,  by  the  usual  text- 
book, the  smaller  ones  are  in  greater  need  of 
consideration  and  will  be  taken  up  first. 

It  is  understood,  however,  that  definite  clas- 
sification is  not  attempted  and  that  the  divi- 
sion into  sub-groups  is  for  convenience  only. 
An  item  in  one  group  may  belong  equally  in 
several  others  and  will  often  be  treated  under 
more  than  one. 


CHAPTER  IV 

YOUR  READERS 

Readers  of  course  vary  in  susceptibility  to 
the  illusion  of  fiction — vary  in  concentration, 
reading  method,  background  of  culture  and 
of  experience  in  life,  familiarity  with  the 
ways  and  habits  of  fiction,  critical  attitude, 
imagination,  particularly  strength  and  qual- 
ity of  imaginative  imagery,  and  in  everything 
else  that  makes  up  mentality  and  individual- 
ity. Must  the  writer  satisfy  and  hold  all 
these  from  one  extreme  to  the  other?  Yes,  if 
he  is  to  do  perfect  fiction.  Possibly  perfect 
fiction  exists,  but  fortunately  readers  can  be 
more  or  less  divided  into  classes  or  types, 
each  class  capable  of  being  very  roughly 
characterized  as  a  unit.  The  more  classes 
reached  and  satisfied  by  a  story,  the  better 
the  story. 

Be  Clear  as  to  Your  Audience. — ^The  fiction 
author  can  follow  one  of  three  courses: 
46 


YOUR   READERS  47 

(1)  He  can  "just  write,"  disregarding  the 
question  of  who  his  readers  may  be  and  trust- 
ing that  his  style  and  methods  may  happen 
to  be  such  as  will  win  him  an  audience.  This 
is  an  admirable  method  provided  it  chances 
to  succeed.  If  it  doesn't,  he  will  have  to 
abandon  it  for  one  of  the  others. 

(2)  Choose  a  particular  class  for  his 
audience  and  aim  directly  at  them.  Natur- 
ally he  will  have  to  study  his  audience  very 
carefully  and  know  them  rather  thoroughly 
if  he  is  to  succeed.  Limiting  his  audience, 
he  limits  the  scope  and  therefore  the  degree 
of  his  success;  a  story  satisfying  the  highest 
class  can  not  be  so  good  as  if  it  satisfied  both 
the  highest  and  the  next  highest  class  or  sev- 
eral other  classes.  It  is  entirely  possible  to 
do  both,  as  Shakespeare  and  others  have 
proved. 

(3)  Aim  to  reach  as  manj'^  classes  as  pos- 
sible. Here,  too,  he  must  study  and  know  his 
audience.  Obviously  it  is  a  higher  aim  than 
the  second,  demanding  more  of  the  author. 
Having  a  larger  audience  to  draw  on,  it  is 
likely  to  attain  greater  success  as  measured 
by  number  of  readers,  though  it  is  always  a 
nice    problem    to    decide    in    a    given    case 


48  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

whether  more  readers  can  be  secured  by 
playing  for  your  share  of  the  majority, 
against  all  competitors,  or  by  concentrating 
on  a  minority,  against  fewer  competitors. 

Considering  carefully  these  three  courses, 
it  is  necessary  first  to  know  your  audience 
and  keep  them  very  definitely  in  mind, 
unless  you  are  willing  to  write  wholly  from 
the  subjective  point  of  view  and  go  it  blind 
as  to  your  audience,  taking  the  extremely 
long  chance  that  your  substance  and  style 
maj^  happen  to  satisfy  a  sufficient  number  of 
readers.  It  generally  doesn't.  Second,  it  is 
advisable  to  reach  as  many  classes  of  readers 
as  possible.  Your  task,  then,  is  to  know  and 
to  consider  constantly  as  many  classes  of 
readers  as  you  can.  And  knowing  them 
means  much  more  than  having  a  general 
knowledge  of  their  tastes. 

Fundamental  Reactions  Universal. — Some 
will  straightway  object,  "But  I  prefer  to  write 
for  only  the  highest  class  of  readers."  It  is 
their  right  to  do  so,  and  their  choice  may  be 
a  wise  one.  But  I  maintain  two  points.  First, 
it  is  not  the  highest  aim.  Second,  the  writer 
who  prefers  this  aim  is  probably  most  likely 
of  all  to  fail  to  know  his  audience.    The  mis- 


VOUR  READERS  49 

take  to  which  he  is  peculiarly  liable  is  that 
of  forgetting  that  the  highest  class  is  not  a 
tiling  apart  but  merely  all  the  other  classes 
plus  something  more.  His  tendency  is  to  be- 
lieve that  thej^  have  passed  on  beyond  all  the 
tastes  and  reactions  of  the  other  classes  far 
more  than  they  really  have.  Most  of  all,  he 
is  likety  to  credit  thein  with  having  risen 
above  the  cruder,  more  fundamental  tastes 
and  reactions  of  the  other  classes.  They 
haven't.  They  have  merely  piled  upon  the 
fundamental  reactions  a  larger  collection  of 
refined — and  often  artificial — reactions  than 
have  the  others.  The  fundamental  reactions 
may  become  somewhat  blurred  and  aborted, 
are  certainly  less  consciously  active  and  gen- 
erally less  active  in  fact,  but  they  are  still 
there  and  still  operative  and  sometimes  in  full 
strength.  That  is  as  true  as  any  general  rule 
that  can  be  laid  down  concerning  the  human 
mind  and  too  much  emphasis  can  not  be 
placed  on  it. 

The  Target. — To  reach  any  audience  per- 
fectly you  must  reach  them  at  all  points, 
satisfying  all  demands,  overcoming  all  their 
inherent  obstacles,  allowing  for  the  varying 
equipment  ranging  from  the  lowest  to  the 


50  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

highest  among  them — equipment  of  back- 
ground, imagination,  concentration,  general 
intelligence  and  so  on.  And  on  each  point 
you  must  reach  those  most  gifted  in  it,  most 
difficult  to  satisfy  in  that  respect.  It  is  not 
enough  to  satisfy  those  with  little  cultural 
background;  your  story  must  stand  the  test 
of  those  who  have  the  most.  It  must  reach 
not  only  those  who  set  particular  store  by  the 
delicate  shadings,  but  those  who  demand  a 
definite  story  interest.  On  any  point  you 
must  aim  to  reach  the  individuals  who  are 
most  difficult  to  reach  on  that  point.  In  no 
other  way  can  you  hope  to  reach  all. 

It  is  not  easy  to  do.  In  fact,  it  isn't  done. 
But  it  must  be  the  target  aimed  at.  It  is  not 
easy  to  reach  both  the  person  who  reads 
word  for  word,  extracting  the  full  flavor  of 
each,  and  also  the  person  who  skips  sen- 
tences, paragraphs  and  pages  in  mad  pursuit 
of  "what  happens";  nor  him  who  at  a  word 
or  two  from  you  reconstructs  a  whole  scene 
in  his  mind's  eye,  and  him  whose  imagination 
can  vision  for  him  only  what  j^ou  describe  in 
detail.  Yet,  if  you  are  to  attain  the  degree  of 
success  possible  to  you,  you  must  aim  to  sat- 
isfy in  each  such  dilemma  the  extreme  that 
for  you  is  most  difficult. 


YOUR   READERS  51 

Study  Human  Beings. — First,  last  and  all 
the  time,  success  means  study  of  the  reader. 
That  means  study  of  human  beings,  not  mere- 
ly of  opinions  of  them  or  of  effects  secured  or 
apparently  secured  on  them  by  other  writers. 
The  opinions  may  be  mistaken;  the  effects 
may  be  there,  but  you  and  the  other  writers 
may  fail  to  assign  to  them  the  proper  causes. 
Strangely  enough,  the  causes  most  often  over- 
looked are  the  elemental  tastes  and  reactions 
common  to  all  normal  humans.  It  is  more 
"literar}%"  and  more  convenient,  to  study  lists 
of  "best  sellers,"  to  read  critical  reviews  and 
academic  essays,  to  be  given  rules  and  stand- 
ards by  some  one  else — who  got  them  from 
reviews,  essays  and  "best  sellers."  But  it  is 
human  beings  who  are  your  readers.  Get 
your  data  at  first  hand. 


CHAPTER  V 

DISTRACTIONS 

To  HOLD  a  reader  in  the  illusion  of  a  story 
it  is  of  course  necessary  to  hold  his  attention, 
not  merely  in  a  general  way,  but  entirely  and 
without  break,  interruption  or  hindrance. 
He  must  live  wholly  and  every  instant  in  the 
story  world — must  never  be  recalled  for  even 
the  fraction  of  a  second  to  the  real  world  he 
lives  in. 

In  writing  any  story  there  are  a  thousand 
chances  of  breaking  the  illusion  by  some  lit- 
tle touch.  Most  of  these  are  almost  auto- 
matically avoided  even  by  writers  of  small 
ability.  Otherwise  there  would  be  no  fiction. 
The  point  is  that  what  are  usually  a  very 
small  minority  are  not  avoided  by  most  writ- 
ers. The  result  is  that  editors  are  likely  to 
reject  the  story  because  it  does  not  "hold  the 
interest,"  is  not  "convincing"  or  "lacks 
punch."  Their  finding  is  probably  just, 
though  they  may  not  have  analyzed  for 
52 


DISTRACTIONS  53 

causes,  and  the  writer  is  not  enlightened  or 
even  convinced  of  the  finding. 

Disproportionate  Damage  from  Distrac- 
tions.— Failing  to  avoid  even  an  extreme 
minority  of  the  chances  for  breaking  the  illu- 
sion is  enough  to  injure  the  story  very 
seriously.  You  can't  afford  to  let  your  reader 
escape  from  the  story's  spell,  slip  back  into 
the  world  he  really  lives  in,  even  momentar- 
ily. For  you  have  to  waste  at  least  a  little  of 
the  story's  potential  force  in  getting  him  back 
again,  which  means  that  you  can  never  get 
him  back  quite  so  fully  as  you  had  him  be- 
fore. You  may  even  not  get  him  back  at  all. 
You  can't  afford  to  have  him  become  even 
momentarily  a  critic,  for  you  must  waste  at 
least  a  little  of  the  storj^'s  potential  appeal  in 
order  to  change  him  back  from  the  critical 
attitude  to  sympathy  and  absorption.  You 
can't  afford  to  let  his  attention  wander  off  to 
side-issues,  for  the  story  has  to  stop  working 
at  being  a  story  in  order  to  get  him  back  on 
the  main  line  and  it  needs  every  atom  of  its 
strength  for  the  main  job. 

We  recently  published  one  of  the  best 
stories  Adventure  ever  printed,  a  combination 
of  simple  narrative  appeal  and  of  literary 


54  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

excellence  of  the  first  water.  It  is  bringing 
us  many  letters  of  appreciation.  To-day  I 
read  a  long  letter  from  one  reader  who  had 
found  in  that  story  nothing,  either  good  or 
bad,  except  that  there  was  an  indirect  incon- 
sistency as  to  one  character's  exact  age.  That 
was  what  you  might  call  the  net  result  of  that 
story  on  a  reader.  All  the  strength  and  merit 
of  an  otherwise  splendid  story  completely 
wrecked  for  a  reader  by  that  one  trifling 
point!  Undoubtedly  others  detected  the  same 
inconsistency  but  suffered  less  acutely  or  did 
not  register  their  "kick."  But  in  each  case 
the  appeal  of  the  story  lost  strength  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  detail 
involved. 

It  is  a  typical,  not  an  exceptional,  case,  ex- 
cept for  the  unusual  merit  of  the  story  ruined. 
Thousands  of  letters  like  that  come  in  from 
readers,  often  many  on  the  same  tiny  slip  or 
discrepancy.  To  those  readers  the  story  in 
question  left  as  its  chief  impress  upon  them  a 
violence — at  one  tiny  point — to  their  knowl- 
edge of  fact  or  sense  of  consistency.  In  each 
case  how  many  otlier  such  readers  are  there 
who  do  not  write  us? 

Other  thousands  of  readers  protest  over 


DISTRACTIONS  55 

such  slips,  such  distractions  from  the  illusion, 
but  are  not  so  completely  swamped  by  them 
that  thej'^  fail  to  consider  the  merits  of  the 
story  as  a  whole.  But,  even  with  them,  how 
big  looms  the  tiny  flaw  in  proportion  to  the 
whole!  In  each  case  how  many  other  such 
readers  are  there  who  do  not  write  in? 

How  to  Use  Your  Friends. — No  point  that 
may  distract  a  reader  can  be  so  small  that  it 
is  not  serious.  You  can  not  measure  the  harm 
done;  in  one  case  there  may  be  no  harm,  in 
another  a  little,  in  another  a  great  deal.  But 
M  writers  who  have  their  friends  "criticize'* 
their  stories  would  ask  these  friends  to  give 
less  attention  to  "hterary"  points  and  take 
careful  note  of  every  little  thing  that  in  any 
way  attracted  attention  to  itself  or  sent  the 
mind  wandering  off  to  things  outside  the 
story,  they  would  get  some  invaluable  point- 
ers— of  the  only  kind  that  the  usual  friend  is 
really  capable  of  giving.  If  some  day  the  col- 
leges make  systematic  laboratory  tests  along 
these  lines  they  should  get  data  as  surprising 
as  they  would  be  useful. 

Unusual  Words. — Consider  how  tiny  a 
thing  is  capable  of  pricking  the  bubble  of 
illusion,  of  jerking  the  reader  for  a  brief 


56  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

instant  back  into  his  real  world  so  that  he 
must  be  drawn  again  into  the  fiction  spell. 
If  in  reading  a  story  you  come  upon  some 
such  word  as  "pringle,"  "anodic,"  "calipash," 
"mansuetude,"  "spiracle,"  "frigorific,"  "cam- 
bist," "gibbous,"  "ortelic"  you  probably  find 
it  unfamiliar  and,  if  so,  of  course  know  that 
you  do.  Therein  lies  the  breaking  of  the  il- 
lusion. However  brief  the  total  time  occu- 
pied by  your  reaction  to  the  word,  however 
slightly  you  may  seem  to  have  paused  over 
it,  you  paused  and  you  paused  over  it — gave 
attention  to  it,  not  to  the  story.  You  had  to 
remember  yourself,  your  own  knowledge 
and  experience.  Quite  possibly  you  also 
considered  the  author's  contrasting  knowl- 
edge and  experience,  and  the  author  is  not 
the  story.  Possibly  you  tried  to  figure  out 
the  meaning  of  the  word  from  its  derivation 
or  the  context,  or  dredged  your  own  mem- 
ory for  it,  making  your  pause  over  it  still 
longer.  Perhaps  your  pause  totaled  only  a 
few  seconds  or  a  fraction  of  one  second,  but 
— the  illusion  was  broken  and  had  to  be 
rebuilt 

Far  less   unusual  words   than   those  cited 
will  be  unfamihar  to  part  of  most  audiences. 


DISTRACTIONS  57 

Would  one  such  word  do  very  serious  dam- 
age? Very  unlikely.  But  it  would  do  some, 
and  even  a  small  damage  is  to  be  avoided  if 
possible.  Would  four  such  words?  There 
can  of  course  be  no  definite  measurement, 
but  one  thing  is  sure — four  would  do  far  more 
than  four  times  as  much  damage  as  one.  The 
effects  are  cumulative,  following  a  kind  of 
geometrical  progression.  And  no  one  knows 
when  a  serious  breaking-point  may  be 
reached. 

Is  a  writer  never  to  use  a  "big  word"?  Not 
if  it's  too  big  for  his  audience.  In  the  mouth 
of  a  character  he  may  put  any  word  he 
pleases,  provided  it  is  used  for  sound  pur- 
poses of  characterization  or  for  some  other 
specific  demand  of  the  story  itself,  but  not  for 
the  mere  telling  of  the  story.  He  might,  for 
example,  wish  to  impress  a  learned  or 
scientific  atmosphere.  In  this  case,  too,  there 
is  the  saving  fact  that  the  reader  need  not 
know  the  meaning  of  these  words,  and  knows 
that  he  need  not,  just  as  he  would  know  he 
need  not  if  he  were  actually  living  in  the 
scene.  He  does  not  feel  challenged  by  them. 
"Big  words"  may  be  justified  in  scores  of 
typical  instances,  but  there  is  no  instance  in 


58  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

which  it  does  not  pay  to  consider  whether  the 
damage  may  not  outweigh  the  gain. 

Even  an  unusual  word  whose  meaning  is  at 
once  apparent  to  any  one,  like  "cat-silent," 
should  be  carefully  weighed  as  to  advantages 
vs.  disadvantages  before  it  is  used.  And  only 
in  the  rarest  instances  can  there  be  justifica- 
tion for  using  such  a  word  more  than  once  in 
the  same  storj%  lest  the  recurrence  added  to 
the  unusualness  make  a  double  distraction. 

Foreign  Words. — The  same  applies  to 
words  from  foreign  languages.  Undoubtedly 
they  are  valuable  in  giving  color,  but  this 
value  is  too  often  attained  at  too  high  cost  in 
distraction  and  is  frequently  attainable 
through  other  means  without  loss.  The  dam- 
age they  do  is  by  no  means  theoretical,  for 
readers  do  not  hesitate  to  complain  to  editors 
on  this  score.  I  do  not  remember  their  doing 
so  in  the  case  of  "big  words,"  for  naturally  a 
man  doesn't  go  to  the  trouble  to  admit  he 
doesn't  understand  words  in  his  own  lan- 
guage, while  often  rather  proud  of  not  under- 
standing foreign  words.  Sufficient  color 
through  foreign  words  can  be  gained  by  using 
only  a  few,  even  if  these  few  are  repeated, 
and  by  using  only  those  instantly  clear  from 


DISTRACTIONS  59 

the  context  or  from  unmistakable  similarity 
to  the  corresponding  English  word  (like 
"fader")  if  context  heads  the  reader  in  that 
general  direction.  There  is  comparatively; 
only  a  slight  risk  in  using  those  that  are  very 
generally  known,  like  "ami"  or  "mon  chere" 
also  ejaculations  that  are  evidently  such  and 
therefore  make  no  demand  on  the  reader's 
understanding. 

Classical,  Historical  and  Fictional  Refer- 
ences.— The  danger,  of  course,  is  that  the 
reader  may  not  be  familiar  with  the  refer- 
ence, knows  that  he  is  not,  and  therefore 
becomes  conscious  of  himself  as  a  reader. 
Another  risk  is  that,  being  familiar  with 
them,  his  mind  drifts  off  to  them  more 
than  the  writer  intended.  Used  with  discre- 
tion, they  may  have  value,  but  they  are  gen- 
erally not  used  with  discretion  and,  generally 
speaking,  a  story  is  the  better  for  telling  itself 
without  covering  part  ot  the  ground  by  means 
of  what  arc  practically  quotations  from  other 
stories.  Also,  there  are  other  dangers  than 
that  of  simple  distraction,  which  will  be  cov- 
ered under  other  heads. 

Unusual  Proper  Names. — To  put  this  case 
concretely,  here  is  the  list  of  the  male  charac- 


60  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

ters  in  one  single  story  I  read  yesterday  in  a 
manuscript:  "Tom  Goit,"  "Braith,"  "Gra- 
hame,"  "Tim  Stine,"  "Linus  Kime,"  "Jes- 
tock,"  "Bissonet,"  "Heads,"  "Arnet,"  "Jim- 
son,'*  "Kliedjorn,"  "Jed  Willoughby,"  "Andy 
Meenal,"  "Yard  Sant,"  "Simson,"  "Angus 
Stell,"  "Gant,"  "Beezaw,"  "Colin  Corbin," 
"Happy  Falls,"  "Jim  Light,"  "Rafe  Gillen," 
"Charley  Jance."  It  is  probably  not  entirely 
complete,  but  was  made  by  running  through 
the  pages  and  taking  all  names  noted,  usual 
or  unusual.  Can  any  human  being  read  that 
story  without  having  his  attention  distracted 
to  the  fact  that  those  names  are  violently  un- 
usual? Doesn't  the  fact  that  they  are  unusual 
add  an  air  of  unreality  to  the  whole  story — 
story-book  names  instead  of  real  people's 
names?  Won't  many  readers  be  definitely 
irritated  by  the  artificiality  and  mannerism? 
Aside  from  this  and  similar  breakings  of  il- 
lusion it  was  a  good  story  and  will  undoubt- 
edly be  printed  somewhere.  Its  author  is  a 
successful  writer  of  fiction.  But  hasn't  the 
story  lost  very  appreciably  through  that 
amazing  collection  of  proper  names? 

On  the  other  hand  there  is  a  certain  advan- 
tage in  the  use  of  such  names  in  some  types 


DISTRACTIONS  61 

of  story  and  for  some  audiences,  though  not 
in  the  story  from  which  the  above  are  taken 
or  for  the  audience  at  which  it  is  aimed. 
Some  readers  Hke  proper  names  that  are 
baldly  fictional  and  unreal;  that  is  what  fic- 
tion means  to  them — unreality,  utter  differ- 
ence from  their  own  lives.  These  are  inuch 
the  same  readers  who  like  their  stories  filled 
with  duchesses,  earls  and  ancestral  halls.  A 
generation  or  two  ago  these  were  a  rather 
large  group,  and  larger  still  before  that,  but 
nowadays  folks  are  more  sophisticated  in 
their  fiction  and  need  illusions  that  run  more 
nearly  with  reality.  And,  at  best,  isn't  it 
rather  a  cheap  method  of  abnormality? 

Unusual  names  serve  also  to  make  the 
characters  more  vivid  to  the  reader's  mind, 
but  this  method  of  characterization  is  a  crude 
one  that  should  give  way  to  better  ones  en- 
tailing no  risk. 

In  humorous  stories  of  a  certain  type  they 
are  entirely  legitimate.  On  the  other  hand, 
look  carefully  at  your  proper  names  lest,  in  a 
serious  story,  you  give  a  character  a  name 
like  "Hencastle"  that  brings  a  grin  where  you 
do  not  wish  to  have  a  grin. 

Alliterative    proper    names    are    another 


62  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

phase  of  the  evil  in  the  case  of  readers  suf- 
ficiently sophisticated  to  note  the  alliteration 
at  all. 

Avoid  proper  names  that  are  difficult  or 
ambiguous  of  pronunciation.  Don't  give 
your  characters  the  same  names  as  those  of 
real  people  prominent  in  the  public  eye 
unless  a  name  is  so  common  that  it  is  not 
likely  to  distract  the  reader  from  the  story's 
illusion  through  thoughts  of  the  real  person; 
even  a  too  similar  name  is  risky  in  some 
cases,  e.  g.  any  variation  of  the  unusual  name 
"Roosevelt." 

Dialect. — While  belonging  more  properly 
under  later  heads  it  serves,  too,  as  a  simple 
distraction  in  itself.  Its  advantages  are 
obvious,  yet  some  readers  will  read  no  story 
with  dialect  in  it  and  some  magazines  will 
print  none. 

Mistakes. — A  typographical  error,  a  mis- 
take in  spelling,  punctuation  or  English  is 
sure  to  check  and  drag  out  of  the  illusion  any 
reader  who  notes  it.  Such  matters  are  defin- 
itely the  editor's  responsibility,  but  he  is  far 
from  infallible  and  the  author  would,  in  most 
cases,  profit  by  safeguarding  against  him.  An 
editor  will  be  grateful,  particularly  the  assist- 


DISTRACTIONS  63 

ant  editor  who  edits  copy  and  reads  proof. 
In  our  own  office  we  can  quote  you  lots  of 
rules  as  to  correct  English — and  show  you  vio- 
lations of  them  in  our  own  pages. 

Mistakes  in  fact  and  statement  w^ill  be  con- 
sidered later. 

Unusual  Mannerisms  of  Style. — Distinction 
is  to  be  made  between,  on  the  one  hand,  in- 
dividuality and  deliberate  shaping  of  style  to 
attain  a  particular  atmosphere  or  suit  par- 
ticular material  and,  on  the  other  hand,  man- 
nerisms that  are  necessary  to  neither  of  these 
ends  and  harmful  in  distracting  attention  to 
themselves.  No  one  can  possibly  draw  a  def- 
inite line  between  these  two  groups,  but  a 
warning  is  badly  needed  against  forgetting 
the  danger.  It  is  a  question  for  laboratory 
test.  Try  to  get  your  friends — or  better,  your 
enemies — to  read  your  story  with  this  point  in 
view,  or  do  not  mention  it  beforehand  and 
cross-examine  them  afterward  as  to  what 
mannerisms  registered  on  their  attention. 
And  don't  hand-pick  your  critics  or  "dogs" 
from  any  one  class  or  group  unless  j^ou  mean 
your  story  to  appeal  to  no  other. 

A  novelette,  which  had  to  be  rewritten  be- 
cause of  it,  used  the  following  mannerism 


64  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  until  each 
recurrence  was  not  only  a  distraction  but  an 
agony :  "he  ran,  and  running,  laughed  aloud," 
"he  sang,  and  singing,  voiced  his  mood,"  "he 
fought,  and  fighting,  worked  toward  the 
house."  Another  writer  habitually,  in  the 
words  following  or  introducing  a  line  of  dia- 
logue, carries  the  legitimate  "he  said,"  "he 
urged,"  "he  encouraged,"  etc.,  to  such  dis- 
tracting extremes  as  "he  frightened,"  "he 
anguished,"  "she  informed,"  "he  recognized," 
"he  remorsed."  Of  late  years  there  has  de- 
veloped the  fad  of  sajang  "the  heart,  or  soul, 
or  head,  of  him"  for  "his  heart,"  "his  soul," 
"his  head,"  etc.  This  variation  from  the  usual 
has,  in  prose,  a  very  limited  field  in  which  its 
advantage  exceeds  its  damage, 

A  mannerism  of  style  is  warranted  if  it  so 
fits  into  a  story  that  it  is  an  integral  and  prac- 
tically unnoted  part  of  it;  otherwise  it  is  a 
harmful  factor.  A  better  adapted  mannerism 
could  have  gained  the  desired  effect  without 
making  of  itself  an  obtrusion. 

Fiction  as  a  Vehicle. — There  are  two  ways 
of  writing  a  story.  One  is  to  write  fiction 
only;  the  otlier  is  to  combine  fiction  with 
something  else.    Readers  like  both  and  both 


DISTRACTIONS  65 

are  legitimate,  but  the  latter  is  of  course  not 
pure  fiction;  fiction  is  merely  the  vehicle  for 
the  other  thing  or  things.  One  of  the  greatest 
evils  among  present-day  fiction  writers  is  the 
failure  to  make  this  distinction  and  keep  it 
clearly  in  mind.  Too  often  a  writer  does  not 
realize  that  there  is  anything  else  mixed  with 
his  fiction;  consequently  his  product  is  not 
straight  or  well-built  fiction  nor  is  the  fiction 
part  of  it  a  carefully  made  vehicle  for  the 
other  thing. 

To  make  fiction  serve  any  end  other  than 
its  own  is  very  likely  to  weaken  its  value  as 
fiction,  and  before  a  writer  thus  weakens  it 
he  should  make  very  sure  that  the  advantages 
gained  from  making  it  carry  something  else 
compensate  for  that  weakening.  If  he  wishes 
to  give  his  reader,  for  example,  some  direct 
philosophy,  well  and  good,  but  he  should — 
and  seldom  does — weigh  the  attendant  loss. 

There  is  a  second  distinction  that  should  be 
made.  When  I  say  "plus  something  else"  I 
mean  phis  something  else  that  is  added  as  a 
load  is  put  upon  a  wagon,  not  something  that 
comes  to  the  reader  as  a  result  of  the  fiction. 
To  say  in  a  story  "a  man  may  prosper  exceed- 
ingly on  a  policy  of  utter  selfishness,  but,  hav- 


66  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

ing  all  his  life  taken  without  giving,  in  the  end 
he  gives  for  what  he  took"  is  putting  a  load 
on  the  wagon.  To  let  the  story  itself  say  that, 
merely  to  tell  a  story  that  illustrates  and 
brings  home  that  truth  without  mentioning  it 
specifically  (unless  through  the  mouth  of  a 
character),  is  only  letting  straight  fiction  per- 
form a  natural  office,  though  a  natural  office 
that  can  be  overworked  at  the  cost  of  a  well 
balanced  whole.  The  former  is  the  easier 
and  less  artistic  method,  and  far  too  many 
writers  follow  it  far  too  often.  Its  evil  is  that 
of  any  "load" — it  breaks  the  illusion,  tending 
to  make  the  reader  think  of  the  person  who 
hands  him  this  bit  of  philosophy,  of  himself, 
of  the  world  in  general,  instead  of  the  story 
world  only. 

The  present-day  fad  of  opening  a  story  with 
a  bit  of  philosophy,  though  objectionable  on 
another  score,  does  little  damage  to  the  illu- 
sion, since  it  conies  before  the  spell  begins 
and  may  even  serve  as  an  intermediate  step. 

Obtrusion  of  Author. — This  is  a  crying  evil, 
a  serious  damage  to  the  illusion.  Tiie  author 
has  no  more  business  to  appear  concretely  in 
his  story  than  a  playwright  has  upon  the  stage 
when  his  play  is  being  acted.     Once  in  ten 


DISTRACTIONS  67 

thousand  times  he  may  himself  be  sufficiently 
interesting  to  atone  for  the  wreck  of  the 
story's  spell;  the  other  nine  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  times  he  is  a  mis- 
take, a  bull  in  a  china-shop.  The  following, 
all  taken  from  submitted  manuscripts,  range 
from  crude  to  subtle  obtrusions: 

"At  the  time  of  which  I  wish  to  speak" 

"you  must  understand" 

"consider  the  case  of  John  Holt.  But  first 
consider  the  environment" 

"see  him" 

"and  it  is  the  correct  word" 

"it  is  necessary  to  add,  in  explanation  of 
this  seeming  paradox" 

"had,  somewhat  grumbingly,  be  it  said," 

"he  had,  for  instance,  tried," 

"and  disappears  from  this  story," 

Each  of  these  compels  a  reader  to  realize 
that  some  one  is  talking  to  him.  You  can't 
be  carried  away  in  a  dream  when  conscious 
that  some  one  is  telling  it  to  you.  Sometimes 
the  point  is  made  that  an  author's  obtrusion 
puts  the  reader  on  more  intimate  terms  with 
him.  What  has  that  to  do  with  fiction  as 
such?  If  the  author  didn't  obtrude  himself, 
the  reader  would  have  no  interest  in  intimacy 
or  non-intimacy  with  him.  If  the  author  is 
the  one  out  of  ten  thousand,  all  right;  other- 
wise, not. 


68  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

If  a  writer  must  express  philosophy  or 
opinions  specifically,  let  him  use  the  legiti- 
mate device  of  the  first-person  narrative,  tak- 
ing care  that  the  narrator  is  cast  in  such 
character  as  to  make  these  opinions  natural 
to  him.  Or  else  baldly  use  fiction  as  vehicle 
only,  making  his  story  a  conversazione. 

There  is  another  legitimate  device.  Kip- 
ling ends  a  story  with  "I  think  he  was  right." 
But  he  begins  that  story  with  "When  I  was 
telling  you  of."  In  other  words,  he  tells  the 
story  in  an  undeveloped  frame  or  brackets. 
Partly  by  leaving  the  frame  undeveloped  and 
impersonal,  his  skill  is  sufficient  to  make  you 
feel  that  it  is  not  Kipling  himself  who  talks 
to  you,  but  some  unknown  participator  in  the 
action  of  the  story  or  an  onlooker.  It  is 
really,  in  effect,  a  first-person  narrative  with 
the  privileges  of  such. 

First-person  narratives,  unless  presented 
as  addressed  to  a  fictitious  audience  such  as 
the  narrator's  children  or  grandchildren,  of 
course  permit  a  fairly  free  direct  address  to 
or  at  the  reader,  since  the  writer  poses  as  the 
actual  teller.  Incidentally,  however,  it  is  not 
consistent  with  his  telling  what  goes  on  inside 
the  characters  unless  made  plain  to  him  as 
one  of  them. 


DISTRACTIONS  69 

As  found  in  submitted  manuscripts,  the 
great  majority  of  authors'  obtrusions  seem 
unconsidered,  and  are  accompanied  by  the 
damage  to  be  expected  from  walking  in  the 
dark.  The  remainder,  almost  without  excep- 
tion, seem  ill-considered.  One  exception  out 
of  a  thousand  instances  is  not  a  heavy 
average. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CLEARNESS 

Anything  that  is  is  not  clear  to  a  reader 
either  causes  him  to  skip  it  and  therefore  miss 
part  of  the  story's  substance  and  effect,  or  else 
makes  him  puzzle.  In  either  case  the  illusion 
suffers.  If  he  puzzles,  he  has  to  use  up  atten- 
tion on  a  point  the  writer  had  counted  on  be- 
ing clear,  his  mind  is  on  the  puzzle,  not 
obsessed  by  the  spell;  the  story's  flow  is 
stopped,  the  reader  is  conscious  of  himself, 
his  difficulty  and  limitations,  perhaps  also  of 
the  author  as  the  cause  of  his  troubles — in  a 
word,  the  reader  has  got  away.  Every  time 
you  confuse  him  you  lose  him.  Deliberate 
mystification  is  a  writer's  prerogative;  hav- 
ing all  his  plans  upset  by  mystification  where 
none  was  expected  or  desired  is  a  calamity. 

Author's  Ostrich  Habit. — Naturally  enough, 
authors  are  inclined  to  a  kind  of  reversed 
ostrich  habit.  If  a  point  was  clear  to  them 
when  they  wrote  it,  they  take  for  granted  that 

70 


CLEARNESS  71 

it  must  be  clear  to  the  reader.  They  forget 
that  they  have  full  knowledge  of  all  that  is  or 
happens  in  their  fiction,  while  the  reader  can 
know  onlj'^  what  comes  to  him  from  the 
printed  page.  Often  when  an  editor  points 
out  an  unclearness  they  argue  with  him, 
blissfully  ignoring  the  fact  that  the  editor  is 
himself  a  reader  and  that  the  reader  found  it 
unclear.  Possibly  the  author  proves  his  case 
— that  is,  he  points  out  other  passages  in  the 
story  which  do  clear  up  the  unclearness  if  the 
reader  remembers  them  and  makes  the  cor- 
rect inferences  and  connections.  The  fact 
that,  in  the  actual  test,  these  passages  failed 
to  produce  the  intended  results  on  the  reader 
slides  off  the  author  like  water  off  a  duck. 
Still  less  does  he  get  the  idea  that  a  reader 
shouldn't  be  distracted  from  the  storj'  by  be- 
ing compelled  to  go  into  a  more  or  less  com- 
plicated reasoning  process  in  order  to  get 
what  should  have  been  handed  to  him  on  a 
platter.  Even  if  several  editor-readers  found 
the  point  unclear,  he  stands  by  his  guns. 

Aside  from  the  author's  vastly  superior 
knowledge  of  his  material  and  intentions, 
many  of  his  readers  may  be  his  mental  infe- 
riors. Also  many  of  them  may  not  be  so  inter- 


72  FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

I 

ested  in  his  story  as  he  is  and  so  give  it  less 
close  attention  than  he  expects.  Part  of  them 
habitually  "skip"  through  a  story  and  de- 
mand a  plain  and  shining  path.  Certainly  no 
one  mind  is  exactly  like  another  and  all  read- 
ers will  not  respond  as  does  the  author  to  any 
given  set  of  stimuli  if  even  a  tiny  loophole  is 
left  open.  A  rule  given  playwrights  is  that  if 
it  is  essential  to  impress  a  basic  point  on  the 
audience,  the  point  must  be  made  at  least 
three  times  in  the  first  scene.  So  extreme  a 
rule  is  not  needed  for  fiction,  but  the  neces- 
sity of  clearness,  even  on  minor  points,  is  no 
less  pressing. 

It  is  a  natural  and  common  mistake  to 
overestimate  the  average  reader's  interest 
and  attention  and  his  ability  and  willingness 
to  solve  puzzles  when  he  sits  down  to  read  a 
story.  A  writer  usually  forgets  that  to  the 
reader  his  is  merely  one  story  out  of  dozens 
or  hundreds  recently  read,  out  of  thousands 
and  ten  thousands  total.  The  writer's  friend- 
critics  have  a  personal  interest  in  him  and  a 
very  special  interest  in  his  story  that  carry 
them  smilingly  over  many  obstacles;  to  the 
average  reader  the  writer  probably  means 
nothing   whatsoever   personally — quite   pos- 


CLEARNESS  73 

sibly  his  name  at  the  head  of  the  story  was 
not  even  read — and  the  story  is  merely  one  of 
very  many.  Any  special  attention  to  it  must 
be  won  by  the  writer's  skill  and  careful  work. 
Talbot  Mundy,  knowing  in  advance  the 
general  lines  of  this  book,  has  furnished  me 
from  his  voluminous  reading  with  various 
quotations  bearing  on  points  covered,  among 
them  this  from  Quintillian: 

"Care  should  be  taken,  not  that  the  reader 
may  understand  if  he  will,  but  that  he  must 
understand,  whether  he  will  or  not." 

And  from  Whitman: 

"Nothing   can   make   up   for   the   lack   of 

definiteness." 

Ambiguous  Words  and  Sentences. — Any 
good  text-book  on  English  covers  the  subject 
and  most  writers  would  profit  by  the  study 
thereof.  If  when  they  try  a  short  story  out  on 
their  friends  they  would  ask  for  practical  de- 
tailed criticism  on  such  points  as  this,  they 
would  get  laboratory  results  far  more  valu- 
able than  the  proverbially  undependable 
criticism  of  friends  on  the  story  as  a  whole. 

Proper  Names. — Be  careful  to  give  your 
characters  names  no  two  of  which  are  similar. 


74  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

The  reader  meets  them  for  the  first  time  and 
has  tiie  task  of  identifying  each  name  with 
the  proper  character  whenever  it  occurs. 
Why  confuse  him  with  two  characters  named 
"Lowe"  and  "Rowe,"  "Towne"  and 
"Browne,"  "Morgan"  and  "Mordan,"  or  even 
"Hadley"  and  "Hatfield"?  Yet  many  and 
many  a  manuscript  contains  this  needless 
stumbling-block  for  readers. 

The  same  mistake  is  made  in  names  of 
places,  ships,  and  so  on. 

Another  maddening  and  very  common 
practise  among  writers  is  to  use  sometimes  a 
character's  last  name,  sometimes  his  first. 
Even  a  short  stoiy  with  only  two  or  three 
characters  can  be  made  a  needless  omelette 
of  confusion,  for  this  bad  habit  is  extended  to 
include  titles  and  nick-names  or  familiar 
forms  of  the  full  names.  Consider  "Doctor 
James  Stanley,"  "Edward  D.  Gage"  and 
"Captain  John  S.  Tompkins."  "Gage"  is  a 
lawyer  and  often  called  "Judge"  by  his  inti- 
mates. "Tompkins' "  lack  of  height  earns 
him  the  usual  "Shorty."  The  author  uses 
some  of  each,  possibly  for  the  sake  of  "vari- 
ety," and  the  three  characters  become,  to  the 
reader,  an  army  and  hopelessly  confused — • 


CLEARNESS  75 

"Stanley,"  "Ed,"  "Cap,"  "Gage,"  "Shorty," 
"Jim,"  "Judge,"  "John,"  "Doc,"  "Tompkins," 
"James,"  "Johnnie,"  "Edward."  Such  a  con- 
fusion is  alone  enough  to  ruin  the  blissfully 
unconscious  writer's  story.  For  the  simple 
reason  that  readers  can  only  half  know  what 
is  going  on.  Yet  in  practise  it  is  a  very  com- 
mon mistake. 

Technical  and  Foreign  Words;  Classical, 
Historical  and  Fictional  References  and  Allu- 
sions.— The  confusion  arises  when  a  reader 
happens  not  to  understand  the  word,  even 
from  the  context,  or  to  be  unfamiliar  with 
the  reference.  Writers  seem  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  all  readers  will  grasp  the  mean- 
ing without  effort  or  delay.  Or  mystify  delib- 
erately to  air  their  culture.  The  warning 
seems  silly  when  set  down  on  paper  but  is 
warranted  by  the  number  of  offenses  in  actual 
practise. 

Naming  Characters  Early. — Sometimes  an 
effect  of  reality  is  gained  by  not  at  once  nam- 
ing characters  in  a  story,  giving  the  reader  as 
it  were,  the  effect  of  looking  down  upon  a  new 
world  whose  figures  are  no  more  known  to 
him  than  they  would  be  at  first  sight  in  a  real 
scene.    Generally,  however,  a  reader  is  likely 


76  FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

to  resent  being  left  to  follow,  for  even  a  few 
pages,  the  fortunes  of  a  nameless  person.  In- 
clude particularly  the  narrator  in  a  first-per- 
son story. 

Dialogue. — Over  and  over  again  an  editor 
is  compelled  to  go  back  over  a  passage  of 
dialogue  in  manuscript  and  "count  out"  with 
finger  or  pencil  until  he  finds  a  line  that  is 
definitely  connected  with  a  particular  speak- 
er. The  characters  are  not  sufficiently  indi- 
vidualized to  be  recognized  from  their  lines, 
context  fails  to  identify,  the  lines  are  not 
labeled  with  the  speakers'  names  and  the 
least  flicker  of  attention  leaves  one  lost  at  the 
end  of  a  dozen  or  even  half  a  dozen  speeches. 
Sometimes  the  author  himself  gets  lost  and 
mixes  or  omits.  An  ordinary  reader  doesn't 
have  to  "count  out"  as  does  the  editor — he  is 
more  likely  to  snort  and  pass  on,  with  part  of 
the  stoi-y  lost  to  him  and  its  net  register  on 
him  badly  damaged.  If  he  doesn't  snort  and 
pass  on  he  stops  to  puzzle  it  out.  Why  injure 
a  story  by  so  crude  an  omission? 

Too  Many  Characters. — The  heading  is  self- 
explanatory.  All  the  characters  in  any  story 
are  utter  strangers  to  the  reader  until  he  be- 
comes familiar  with  them;  he  can  keep  clear 


CLEARNESS  77 

in  his  mind  only  a  limited  number  of  new 
acquaintances  all  made  in  the  course  of  a  few 
minutes;  the  kind  of  writer  who  uses  many 
characters  is  usually  the  kind  who  is  unable 
to  individualize  them  with  any  vividness.  A 
novel  or  novelette  gives  greater  scope,  but  iii 
a  short  story  it  may  almost  be  given  as  a! 
general  rule  that  the  fewer  the  characters,  the 
stronger  the  story,  not  counting  characters 
used  in  blocks,  such  as  mobs,  armies,  specta- 
tors. Structure  and  proportion,  as  well  as 
clearness,  are  of  course  involved. 

Dialect  and  Slang. — Neither  is  familiar  in 
all  places  or  to  all  classes,  and  on  the  point  of 
clearness  both  are  to  be  condemned.  Their 
advantages  will  be  considered  later. 

The  stupidest  blunder  in  handling  dialect 
is  to  misspell  a  word  without  really  changing 
its  pronunciation,  thus  confusing  the  reader's 
eye  yet  gaining  only  the  appearance  of  dia- 
lect— and  the  reader's  irritation. 

Contradictions  and  Inconsistencies. — Their 
variety  is  infinite  and  their  occurrence  in  sub- 
mitted manuscripts  frequent  beyond  the  be- 
lief of  those  who  read  only  the  corrected 
printed  page.  A  woman  changes  the  color  of 
her  eyes;  with  a  conversation  that  could  oc- 


78  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

cupy  only  one  minute  there  is  coincident 
action  that  couldn't  possibly  be  compressed 
into  five,  or,  very  commonly,  a  bland  lapse  of 
even  more  time  without  any  action;  a  six- 
shooter  emits  seven  shots  without  reloading; 
of  a  party  of  fourteen,  five  turn  back  and  ten 
remain;  a  character  uses  a  word  that  would 
never  be  used  by  such  a  person  in  real  life, 
or  acts,  without  explanation,  entirely  at  vari- 
ance with  his  nature  as  the  author  has  pic- 
tured it;  the  hero  acts  on  information  he  has 
not  j'^et  received;  a  man's  name  changes  dur- 
ing the  story;  a  woman  opens  a  door  already 
open;  a  character  goes  somewhere  else  with- 
out leaving  or  becomes  present  without  arriv- 
ing. When  you  encounter  such  a  break  in  a 
printed  story  doesn't  it  jar  you  out  of  the 
illusion,  lessen  your  respect  for  the  author, 
and  therefore  permanently  damage  his  story's 
hold  on  you? 

There  can  be  no  general  rule  for  correction. 
When  not  the  result  of  sheer  carelessness  and 
indifference,  such  errors  are  due  to  the 
author's  failure  to  visualize,  to  live  his  scenes 
himself.  This  failure  in  some  cases  is  due  to 
real  inability  or  comparative  inability,  but  in 
very  many  cases  to  attention  so  obsessed  and 


CLEARNESS  79 

ridden  by  principles  of  plot,  rules  lor  charac- 
ter drawing,  regulations  for  niceties  of  style, 
application  of  technique  in  general  and  re- 
quirements of  various  magazines  that  there's 
no  brain-force  left  for  making  the  story 
world  a  really  convincing  and  natural  one  in 
its  all  important  details. 

Holding  Reader  to  Correct  Plot  Line. — In 
other  words,  proportion  and  emphasis.  Brief- 
ly stated,  what  is  meant  here  is  clearness  of 
path  for  the  reader  through  the  incidents  of 
the  stoiy,  so  that  his  mind  will  follow  or  leap 
ahead  only  in  the  exact  direction  the  author 
wishes  for  the  fullest  effectiveness  of  his 
story.    This  will  be  taken  up  in  detail  later. 

Simplicity. — The  following  from  Schopen- 
hauer (thanks  to  Mr.  Mundy)  gives  us  the 
heart  of  the  matter: 

"Nothing  is  easier  than  to  write  so  that  no 
one  can  understand;  just  as,  contrarily,  noth- 
ing is  more  difficult  than  to  express  deep 
things  in  such  a  way  that  every  one  must 
necessarily  grasp  them." 

Yet  to  most  of  those  sending  manuscripts 
to  magazines  simplicity,  particularly  simplic- 
ity in  words  and  style,  is  very  pointedly 
something   to   be   avoided   whatever   else   is 


80  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

done  or  left  undone.  The  twin  cause  of  this 
appalling  idea,  this  curse  stupidly  laid  upon 
American  fiction,  is  the  firmly  rooted  belief 
that  literature  must  be  an  expression  that  is, 
first,  unnatural,  second,  learned,  recondite, 
even  sophomoric.  In  its  lowest  and  very  com- 
mon form  it  is  no  more  than  the  crude  idea 
that  editors  must  be  very  scholarly  persons 
and  that  therefore  they  would  scorn  any 
manuscript  that  didn't  have  a  lot  of  "big 
words"  in  it.  The  simple  language  of  Shakes- 
peare, Homer,  Virgil,  the  Bible  and  other 
really  enduring  classics  loom  before  their 
eyes,  but  no,  they  follow  the  jack-o'-lantern 
of  "big  words."  They  have  this  excuse — much 
of  the  fiction  published  in  magazines  and 
books  is  fairly  rotten  with  "big  words,"  a  re- 
flection on  editors  and  reading  public  as  well 
as  writers. 

The  hard  practical  argument  against  "dic- 
tionary words"  is  that  most  people  find  them 
difficult  to  understand  or  at  least  lack  the 
definite,  vivid,  full  connotation  for  them  that 
they  have  for  the  simpler  and  more  common 
words  of  our  very  rich  language.  Such  words 
reduce  the  size  of  an  author's  fully  apprecia- 
tive  audience.     Another   point   is    that   the 


CLEARNESS  81 

writer  who  doesn't  know  any  better  than  to 
make  a  business  of  using  them  is  very  often 
himself  lacking  in  an  understanding  of  their 
finer  shades  of  meaning.  A  third  point  is 
that,  unless  such  words  are  part  of  his  own 
every-day  vocabulary  he  is  being  unnatural 
in  using  them  and  thereby  ruins  his  chances 
of  attaining  real  style  or  producing  real  liter- 
ature. Also  he  gives  through  them  to  his 
story  an  unnatural,  artificial  quality,  an  air 
of  being  forced.  In  the  eyes  of  all  those  with 
a  real  understanding  of  real  literature  he 
makes  of  himself  a  plain  darned  fool. 

But  can  there  be  no  great  literature  with- 
out simplicity?  None  that  couldn't  be  greater 
with  it.  A  straight  line  is  the  shortest  dis- 
tance between  two  points;  any  deviation  from 
it  is  lost  motion,  unnecessary;  the  best  litera- 
ture contains  no  lost  motion  and  nothing 
that  is  unnecessary.  But  is  not  a  "big  word" 
sometimes  the  straight  line?  Yes,  but  for  one 
case  of  this  kind  there  are  twenty  when  it  is 
not.  Sometimes  the  author  uses  it  for  a 
simpler  phrasing  not  sufficiently  mastered  to 
come  to  mind  at  need;  sometimes  it  is  neces- 
sary only  because  he  has  committed  himself 
by  some  roundabout  phrasing  demanding  it 


82  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

for  completion;  sometimes  he  commits  him- 
self to  it  by  following  the  inferior  method  of 
telling  the  reader  what  is  inside  a  character 
instead  of  making  it  plain  through  what  the 
character  says  and  does  and  what  other  char- 
acters say  and  do  to  him. 

The  final  test  for  the  use  of  "big  words"  is 
the  nature  of  the  material  or  ideas  handled. 
In  some  cases  they  are  necessary  to  a  degree, 
sometimes  to  a  great  degree.  But  in  practise 
the  nature  of  the  material  is  generally  not 
correctly  assayed,  or  is  mishandled,  or  the 
need  imagined.  The  ignorant  use  them 
through  ignorance;  for  those  with  a  good 
knowledge  of  words  it  is  generally  easier  to 
use  the  "big  word,"  the  Latin  derivative  in- 
stead of  the  simpler  Anglo-Saxon. 

Is  it  not  therefore  more  natural  and  so  bet- 
ter for  this  last  class  to  use  the  "big  w^ord"? 
That  depends  on  why  it  is  natural — or  on 
whether  it  is  natural  or  merely  habitual.  A 
writer  may  have  come  into  the  use  of  them, 
not  by  natural  development  but  through  de- 
liberate effort,  a  stunt  for  the  sake  of  seeming 
learned  or  being  impressive,  so  that  their  use, 
while  easy  to  him,  is  merely  the  result  of  his 
having  made  of  himself  a  kind  of  abnormal- 
ity— an  artificial  result  of  artificial  talking 


CLEARNESS  83 

and  method  of  thought.  On  the  other  hand 
is  the  far  rarer  case  of  him  wliose  mind  nat- 
urally expresses  itself  through  polysyllables, 
generally  because  of  an  education  from  books 
instead  of  people.  I  know  one  writer  who 
spoke  to  no  one  for  two  years  except  for  the 
barest  necessities  because  when  he  used  what 
to  him  was  perfectly  natural  language  the 
people  he  met  thought  he  was  "stuck  up"  or 
showing  off. 

I  do  not  know  why  Heniy  James  wrote  as 
he  did,  but  contrast  the  two  following  cases: 

I  once  shared  an  apartment  with  an  ardent 
admirer  of  James  and  as  I  did  not  share  his 
admiration  we  argued  frequently.  James 
came  to  New  York  while  my  friend  was  pre- 
paring a  bibliography  of  his  idol's  works. 
There  was  some  question  as  to  several  early 
articles  or  stories  that  had  magazine  but  not 
book  publication  and  my  friend  wrote  for 
the  simple  information  necessary.  It  could 
have  been  given  amply  and  courteously  in 
two  or  three  sentences.  The  reply  was  ap- 
palling in  its  totally  unnecessary  complexity, 
length  and  creation  of  detail,  so  much  so  that 
my  friend  woke  me  up  to  show  it  to  me  and 
joined  in  my  unholy  glee.  It  was,  surely,  a 
natural  expression,  but  why  was  it  natural? 


84  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

And  certainly  it  was  not  adapted  to  the 
nature  of  the  material  or  idea. 

Now  read  the  first  one  hundred  and  fifty 
words  of  A  Coward  by  De  Maupassant,  even 
in  translation,  then  write  down  the  things 
you  know  about  the  character  described  in 
those  few  very  simple  words  and  you  will  be 
amazed  at  the  length  of  the  list. 

Consider  that  De  Maupassant  and  his  mas- 
ter Flaubert  stand  preeminently  for  unre- 
lenting search  for  "the  one  word"  and  that 
both  of  them  are  characterized  by  extreme 
simplicity  of  presentation.  And  is  any  char- 
acter of  Henry  James'  so  much  more  intri- 
cately drawn  than  "Madame  Bovary"? 

Among  more  modern  writers  take  Joseph 
Conrad.  I  am  a  Conrad  "fan,"  but  consider 
him,  comparatively  speaking,  a  poor  work- 
man though  a  great  artist.  Here  we  have 
simplicity  of  words  but  not  of  expression  in 
a  general  sense.  I  do  not  by  any  means  fully 
understand  most  of  his  stories  and  I  find  that 
others  are  about  equally  at  sea  if  they  are 
honest  or  are  cross-examined.  In  most  of  the 
qualities  that  make  a  great  fictionist  he 
stands  in  the  front  rank,  but  he  is  lacking  in 
corresponding  ability  to  simplify  and  clarify 
his  thought,  to  make  the  proper  abstraction 


CLEARNESS  85 

and  selection  of  thought  expressions.  His 
content  and  gifts  are  so  rich  that  even  only  a 
part  of  them  registered  on  readers  is  suffi- 
cient to  rate  him  a  master,  but  the  fact  re- 
mains that  he  conveys  only  a  part  of  what 
he  has  to  say.  Instead  of  a  direct,  clear-cut, 
simple  path  to  his  goal  he  gives  the  reader  a 
maze  of  paths  that  is  not  lacking  in  blind 
alleys. 

Whatever  be  the  generally  accepted  aca- 
demic philosophy  of  simple  versus  complex 
expression,  it  can  not  outface  the  fact  that 
the  minority  of  readers  can  not  so  fully  un- 
derstand or  appreciate  complexity  and  that 
"with  them  the  effectiveness  of  a  story  is 
thereby  crippled.  Certainly  in  practise  there 
is  crying  need  for  the  mastery  that  can  say 
all  yet  say  it  simply.  If,  instead  of  straining 
for  complexity,  beginners  would  aim  at  sim- 
plicity, especially  of  words,  they  would  not 
only  come  closer  to  writing  both  good  maga- 
zine stories  and  good  literature,  but  would 
find  themselves  able  to  "handle"  greater  and 
greater  complexity  of  thought  and  with  a 
precision  and  effectiveness  that  can  not  be 
equaled  by  the  other  method. 

Remember  that  the  simple,  cvery-day  words 
are  in  almost  all  cases  the  stronger  ones. 


86  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

Repetition. — Before  leaving  the  subject  of 
clearness  as  a  whole  (it  will  come  up  again 
in  connection  with  other  subjects),  a  word 
might  be  ventured  on  repetition.  The  present 
horror  of  it  is  a  badly  exaggerated  reaction. 
To  repeat  without  due  cause  an  unusual  word 
or  phrase  in  a  short  story,  or  a  usual  one  too 
close  to  its  first  use,  is  a  distraction  and  there- 
fore harmful  to  the  illusion,  but  sometimes 
due  cause  is  ignored.  A  story,  all  so  clear  to 
its  author,  presents  hundred  of  facts  with 
which  the  reader  must  familiarize  himself. 
The  easier  you  make  this  for  him  and  the 
more  you  insure  his  getting  all  the  points 
necessary  to  a  foil  appreciation  of  your  story, 
the  more  fully  will  your  story  register  on  him. 
To  present  a  vital  point  once  so  vividly  that 
it  is  almost  sure  to  register  is  best  of  all  and 
correspondingly  difficult  to  do,  but  keep  your 
eyes  open  for  cases  where  repetition,  proba- 
bly not  in  exactly  the  same  words,  will  ac- 
complish the  same  purpose  nearly  as  well 
and  perhaps  more  surely. 

Aside  from  clearness,  in  skilful  hands 
repetition  can  become  a  most  subtle  and 
powerful  instrument  for  dramatic  and  poetic 
effects  of  high  literary  quality. 


CHAPTER  \11 

OVERSTRAIN 

A  READER  has  just  SO  much  of  attention,  in- 
terest and  appreciation  to  give  to  any  story 
and,  to  hold  him  in  the  illusion,  it  is  of  the 
highest  importance  not  to  wear  him  out  be- 
fore you  are  through  with  him  and  not  to  use 
him  up  on  minor  points  or  on  matters  that 
should  put  upon  him  no  strain  whatever. 

Brevity. — Most  of  all,  don't  talk  too  much 
or  too  long.  A  story  is  never  so  dead  as  when 
buried  in  words.  Most  of  the  stories  sub- 
mitted can  be  cut  to  advantage,  often  very 
heavily  cut.  The  reader  gets  worn  out  wait- 
ing for  soinething  to  happen — is  bored  by 
being  told  in  a  hundred  words  what  he  could 
have  grasped  in  twenty. 

Do  not  feel  that  you  must  give  the  entire 
history  of  the  hero's  life  in  a  short  story; 
only  a  certain  few  incidents  and  facts  have 
direct  bearing  and  the  remainder  must  be 
mercilessly  cut  out.  Nor  all  the  scenes  and 
87 


88  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

action  of  any  story.  Make  it  your  object  to 
have  as  much  as  possible  happen  off-stage; 
what  forces  itself  to  the  footlights  will  prob- 
ably belong  there. 

Unclearnesses  and  Distractions. — Any  un- 
clearness  or  ambiguity  or  any  distraction  is 
of  course  a  profitless  strain  upon  the  reader. 
Don't  compel  a  reader  to  reason  out  things 
that  should  be  clear  at  a  glance.  Even  the 
intentional  unciearness  of  subtlety,  though 
by  no  means  a  fault,  must  also  be  weighed 
as  to  disadvantage  in  strain. 

All  the  points  covered  in  Chapter  VI  apply 
in  this  one. 

Sentence  Length. — Vary  it.  If  you  can, 
vary  it  in  accordance  with  variation  in  emo- 
tions of  material,  in  desired  effects  on  reader, 
but  vary  it  in  any  case.  The  very  monotony 
of  a  long  succession  of  either  long  or  short 
sentences  is  wearing. 

Don't  drag  a  reader  through  a  sentence  so 
long  that  in  following  it  he  tires  out  before 
he  can  draw  mental  breath. 

Hold  Reader  to  Correct  Plot  Line. — From 
first  word  to  last,  don't  wear  him  out  by  let- 
ting him  cover  useless  distance  over  false 
trails. 


OVERSTRAIN  89 

Classical  and  Other  References. — In  addi- 
tion to  their  dangers  of  distraction  and  un- 
clearness  they  force  a  reader,  if  they  reach 
him,  to  picture  or  consider  characters,  events 
and  scenes  in  addition  to  those  of  the  story. 
They  are  of  course  justified  in  comparatively 
rare  instances. 

Dialect,  Archaic  Speech,  Slang,  Foreign, 
Unusual  and  Technical  Words. — All  these 
offer  obstacles  to  at  least  part  of  your  au- 
dience. To  a  probable  minority  dialect  is  a 
delight,  it  is  of  course  necessary  to  faithful 
realism,  and  it  undoubtedly  gives  color.  Yet 
many  will  not  read  a  dialect  story,  their  chief 
reason  being  the  labor  necessary  to  under- 
stand it.  There  are,  too,  those  who  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  object  to  anything 
foreign,  meaning  by  foreign  anything  differ- 
ent from  their  own.  It  is,  for  the  author,  a 
question  of  weighing  advantages  against  dis- 
advantages. Archaic  speech,  as  far  as  strain 
is  concerned,  is  merely  dialect.  One  writer 
makes  the  rule  of  using  the  speech  of  the 
time  in  which  his  story  is  laid  for  all  periods 
following  and  including  that  of  Elizabeth, 
using  modern  English  for  all  earlier  periods, 
his  argument  being  that  her  reign  approx- 


90  FUNDAMENTALS  OF  FICTION   WRITING 

imately  draws  the  line  between  speech  that 
is  now  intelligible  with  little  or  no  effort  and 
speech  that  is  not.  Archaic  forms  of  foreign 
tongues  must  be  rendered  to  us  in  English,  so 
fall  under  the  same  rule. 

Slang,  too,  is  to  be  weighed  as  to  advantages 
and  disadvantages.  It  is  perhaps  more  dif- 
ficult than  in  the  cases  of  dialect  and  archaic 
speech  to  compute  the  proportion  of  readers 
to  whom  it  will  be  sufficiently  intelligible. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  generally  in  itself 
humorous  and  therefore  of  particular  value 
when  a  humorous  effect  is  desired;  gives 
color;  aids  in  characterization. 

The  danger  of  foreign,  unusual  and  techni- 
cal words  is  much  the  same  on  the  score  of 
strain  as  on  the  score  of  distraction  and  un- 
clearness. 

Relief  Scenes. — At  some  point  a  reader's 
response  to  a  demand  on  his  emotions  ceases 
and  he  grows  callous  to  the  appeal,  but  writ- 
ers often  forget  this  fact  and  continue  to  de- 
mand long  after  he  has  lost  his  ability  to 
respond.  Perfection  is  to  bring  him  to  your 
climax  at  the  full  flood  of  response,  but  to  do 
so  requires  careful  handling.  A  steady,  gen- 
tle increase  of  demand  is  best  if  you  can  be 


OVERSTRAIN  91 

absolutely  sure  of  results,  but  a  most  useful 
safeguard  is  the  use  of  relief  scenes.  If 
3'ou've  kej^ed  him  up  to  a  dangerously  high 
pitch,  give  him  a  rest-scene  before  j'^ou  add  a 
further  call  upon  his  emotions — shift  the 
scene  or  time  and  let  him  look  a  moment  at 
a  quiet  landscape  or  gentle  action.  Make  the 
change  a  decided  one  and  you  not  only  rest 
him  but  profit  by  the  sharp  dramatic  con- 
trast between  the  relief  scene  and  those  fol- 
lowing and  preceding  it.* 

Frames  or  Brackets.  —  That  is,  a  story 
within  a  story — a  story  one  of  whose  charac- 
ters tells  the  main  story.  Its  advantage  is  a 
gain  in  semblance  of  reality — if  it  is  handled 
with  sufficient  skill.  It  verj'^  seldom  is.  Its 
disadvantage  is  an  overstrain,  in  demanding 
of  the  reader  that  he  form  two  illusions  in- 
stead of  one,  and  a  consequent  dividing  and 
weakening  of  attention.  Having  accom- 
plished the  task  of  getting  clear  in  his  mind 
one  setting  and  one  set  of  characters,  he  is 
forced  to  take  up  a  new  set  of  characters  and 
probably  a  new  setting,  a  double  strain  with- 
in the  compass  of  a  single  story.     If,  as  is 


♦Read  De  Quincey's  On  the  Knocking  at  tJie  Gate  in 
"Macbeth." 


92  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

often  the  case,  a  character  in  the  frame  (or 
several  characters)  persists  in  interrupting 
the  course  of  the  inner,  the  real  stoiy,  con- 
flict or  confusion  of  illusion  is  compounded. 

Most  writers  could  profit  by  not  attempting 
the  doubly  difficult  task  of  a  bracketed  or 
framed  story.  Unless  exceptional  skill  is 
brought  to  bear,  the  frame-stoiy  is  almost 
sure  either  to  be  too  slight  and  unconvincing 
or  to  be  made  more  or  less  convincing  by 
being  developed  at  such  length  that  it  is  too 
serious  an  encroachment  upon  space  needed 
for  the  real  story.  Yet  it  is  a  favorite  attempt 
with  those  least  able  to  handle  it. 

Mystery  Stories. — These  must  be  consid- 
ered as  a  class  by  themselves,  for  their  delib- 
erate intent  is  to  make  the  reader  strain  at 
solving  a  puzzle  or  at  following  its  intricate 
presentation  and  solution,  and  he  turns  to 
them  at  least  partly  for  the  mental  stimulus 
involved.  Yet  overstrain  is  entirely  possible. 
In  fact,  this  type,  by  reason  of  its  inherent 
intricacy  and  effort  for  the  reader,  demands 
particularly  that  he  be  not  compelled  to 
strain  over  points  that  are  non-essential  to 
the  mystery  proper.  Unskilled  or  unfair 
writers    sometimes    intentionally    add    con- 


OVERSTRAIN  93 

fusions  that  are  in  no  way  necessary,  and 
many  a  mystery  story  lessens  its  hold  on 
readers  by  unintended  unclearnesses  or  sug- 
gestions that  mislead  in  unnecessary  direc- 
tions and  to  no  purpose.  A  reader  may  like 
to  solve  puzzles,  but  he  most  emphatically 
has  the  right  to  be  at  all  times  clear  as  to  just 
what  the  puzzle  is. 

Plot. — Unnecessary  intricacy,  of  course, 
should  be  avoided  in  any  type  of  story;  the 
difficulty  in  a  given  case  is  to  draw  the  line 
between  necessaiy  and  unnecessary.  But  for 
any  writer  who  has  not  made  very  decided 
progress  toward  mastering  his  art  a  fairly 
safe  rule  is  to  simplify  his  plot  as  much  as 
possible.  Perhaps  that  plot  might  be  made 
more  effective  if  developed  in  greater  intri- 
cacy by  skilled  hands,  but  his  hands  are  prob- 
ably not  sufficiently  skilful  and  the  net  re- 
sult of  his  attempt  is  likely  to  be  a  reader 
worn  out  by  too  many  loosely  knit  threads 
of  plot.  As  he  grows  in  skill  he  will  find  that 
more  and  more  intricate  plots  become — for 
him — simple  plots  and  therefore  to  be  under- 
taken with  confidence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CONVINCINGNESS 

Among  writers  of  some  experience  the 
rejection  of  a  manuscript  for  the  quite  com- 
mon reason  that  it  is  "not  convincing"  is  often 
considered  merely  the  editor's  slipshod, 
evasive  or  ignorant  excuse  given  in  place  of 
some  mysterious  real  reason  or  through  lack 
of  any  definite  one.  Sometimes  it  is,  but, 
when  honestly  and  intelligently  given,  it  is 
the  best  possible  reason  for  rejection.  "Un- 
convincingness"  means  definitely  and  di- 
rectly that  a  story  fails  to  impose  its  illusion 
— that  it  is  merely  words  for  the  reader  to 
look  at,  not  a  world  for  him  to  live  in.  It 
is  the  death-knell  to  the  illusion. 

An  editor's  failure  to  give  the  reasons  why 
it  is  "not  convincing"  may  be  due  to  his  not 
having  analyzed  beyond  the  general  effect, 
but  it  may  be  simply  because  imconvincing- 
ness  is  not  easy  to  reduce  to  black  and  white 
and  at  best  involves  far  more  detail  than  his 

94 


CONVINCINGNESS  95 

time  permits  him  to  handle.  It  is  as  various 
and  elusive  as  human  nature  itself,  but  the 
more  common  causes  can  be  fairly  well  in- 
idicated. 

Improbabilities  and  Impossibilities. — Con- 
tradictions and  inconsistencies  have  already- 
been  considered  in  Chapter  VI  and  are  to  be 
included  under  this  head.  Improbabilitj^  and 
impossibility  are  of  course  relative  terms; 
a  wishing-ring,  while  an  utter  impossibility 
in  reality,  is  not  even  an  improbability  in  a 
stoiy  of  fairies;  if  the  reader  accepts  the 
major  illusion  of  fairy-land  there  will  be  no 
difficulty  to  his  accepting  the  minor  illusion 
of  a  wishing-ring.  But  in  a  story  of  anything 
approaching  real  life  absolute  conformity  to 
the  laws  and  facts  of  real  life  is  relentlessly 
exacted,  and  in  stories  dependent  upon  the 
acceptance  of  some  fundamental  premise, 
like  the  reality  of  fairy-land  or  the  possibility 
of  being  transferred  into  the  year  2022,  there 
must  be  equally  relentless  conformity  to  the 
condition  of  the  premise. 

I  venture  that  not  twenty  per  cent,  of  ac- 
cepted manuscripts  are  entirely  free  from 
slips  of  this  kind  when  submitted.  Acceptance 
has  been  in  spite  of  them,  each  of  them  les- 


96  FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

sened  the  chances  of  acceptance,  and  suffi- 
cient increase  in  their  number  would  have 
meant  rejection  by  any  good  magazine. 
There  is,  of  course,  the  type  of  story  that  de- 
pends upon  sheer  quantity  and  tenseness  of 
action  to  carry  the  reader  along,  despite  all 
inconsistencies  and  improbabilities  —  the 
"dime  novel"  type,  but  all  the  strain  of  a 
bridge  should  not  be  upon  a  single  girder. 

Improbabilities  of  Plot. — Too  infinite  in 
variety  for  any  attempt  at  classification. 
The  test  in  each  case  must  reduce  first  to, 
'^Could  it  happen  under  the  conditions?" 
And  the  writer — with  help  from  his  friends 
if  they  can  be  induced  to  help  in  this  more 
practical  fashion — must  be  the  judge.  Then 
he  must  narrow  his  question  to,  "Is  it  so  likely 
to  happen  that  the  reader  will  accept  it  with- 
out hesitation?"  Here  is  the  real  test  and 
most  writers  fail  to  meet  it  largely  because 
they  have  not,  under  the  present  system  of 
teaching  fiction,  been  trained  to  measure  a 
story  strictly  through  the  reader's  eyes.  Many 
a  time  eveiy  editor  has  been  "caught"  by  an 
author  who  wrote  back  gleefully  or  vindic- 
tively "but  it  actually  happened  in  real  life!" 
Doubtless,  but  that  doesn't  mean  anything. 


CONVINCINGNESS  97 

It  may  have  happened  a  thousand  times  in 
real  hfe,  but  if  readers  can  not  beheve  it 
when  they  find  it  in  a  stoiy  it  is  none  the 
less  an  improbability  in  that  story,  a  blow  to 
convincingness,  a  check  to  the  reader,  an  in- 
jury to  the  illusion. 

I  have  struggled  so  often,  and  so  often 
vainly,  to  make  writers  realize  this  distinc- 
tion that  I  come  to  it  now  girded  for  the  fray. 
Can't  they  see  that  a  fact  can  not  be  a  fact 
to  a  reader  if  he  refuses  to  consider  it  a  fact? 
Are  they  so  hopelessly  egotistic  in  their  out- 
look on  life  that,  because  an  improbable  or 
unusual  thing  has  occurred  in  their  personal 
experience,  it  has  thereby  demonstrated  its 
possibility  to  every  one  else?  Are  they  so 
sickeningly  conceited  as  to  be  sure  that  their 
presentation  of  the  fact  is  as  convincing  to 
others  as  was  the  fact  itself  to  them?  Are 
they  so  imbecile  as  not  to  see  that  "proving" 
it  to  an  editor  after  the  reading  of  the  story 
does  not  in  any  way  prove  it  to  the  next  or 
any  reader  while  he  is  reading  it?  That,  if 
it  were  published,  they  would  never  have 
the  chance  to  prove  it  afterward  in  the  case 
of  readers  as  they  had  had  in  the  case  of  the 
editor?    That  readers,  ninety-nine  times  out 


98  FUNDAMENTALS  OF  FICTION   WRITING 

of  a  hundred,  would  not  even  bother  to  chal- 
lenge the  author  on  the  point  but  would 
merelj'^  class  him  as  "punk"  and  his  story  as 
"bunk"  and  go  on  to  the  next  in  the  thou- 
sands of  stories  they  read? 

Ah,  no,  it  "really  happened"  somewhere! 
That  ought  to  be  enough  for  anybody,  even 
if  he  doesn't  know  it  happened  and  is  con- 
vinced that  it  couldn't  and  knows  mighty  well 
that  it  is  contrary  to  his  own  experience ! 

A  leprechawn  or  a  magic  carpet  can  be 
made  entirely  convincing  as  part  of  the 
story's  illusion  by  sufficient  skill  and  in  the 
proper  setting,  while  the  wonderful  drive  you 
and  a  half-dozen  other  witnesses  saw  John 
R,  Smith  make,  on  your  club  links  a  week  ago 
Wednesday  can,  if  put  into  a  story,  seem 
nothing  whatever  but  a  crude  lie.  Verily, 
truth  is  stranger  than  fiction — particularly 
good  fiction.  Good  fiction  makes  a  business 
of  being  a  little  less  strange  than  truth  some- 
times is,  so  that  it  can  be  believed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  "really  happened" 
incident  is  likely  to  need  twice  the  amount  of 
"framing  up"  that  an  imaginary  but  more 
usual  one  would  require. 

The  true  addict  to  this  stupid  and  stubborn 


CONVINCINGNESS  99 

point  of  view  scorns  the  simple  device,  used 
by  his  betters,  of  presenting  the  unusual  as 
an  unusual  thing.  No,  it  must  be  accepted  as 
normal;  it  happened,  youVe  got  to  believe  it. 
It  doesn't  occur  to  him  that  it  was  unusual  to 
him,  that  he  seized  upon  it  as  material  for 
that  veiy  reason,  that  it  would  be  equally  un- 
usual to  the  characters  in  his  story  and  that, 
really  to  duplicate  or  simulate  life,  he  must 
make  his  characters  register  the  same  sur- 
prise and  interest  that  he  himself  felt  as  a 
result  of  its  unusualness.  You  can  make  a 
reader  accept  something  as  a  remarkable  oc- 
currence which  he  would  utterly  reject  as  a 
normal  happening. 

For  example,  take  the  common  case  of 
the  very  feminine  heroine  who  goes  through 
the  author's  best  hell  of  horror,  desperation, 
bodily  strain  and  general  nerve-shock  and, 
when  rescued  at  its  very  climax,  at  once 
blandly  regains  almost  entire  poise  and  enun- 
ciates a  veiy  charming  love-passage  or  goes 
cheerfully  and  competently  about  her  other 
business.  Most  of  us  know  that  it  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  female  sex  to  rise  to  an  emer- 
gency strain  and  collapse  or  violently  react 
the  instant   the   demand  is  removed  if  not 


100        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

before.  Consequently  said  heroine  fails  to 
convince.  The  author's  logical  correction  is 
to  make  this  heroine  conform  to  general  ex- 
perience, but,  if  he  simply  can  not  or  will  not 
change  this  part  of  his  plot,  why  not  give 
what  convincingness  he  may  by  making  her 
show  at  least  some  effects  of  the  strain,  or 
making  clear  that  reaction  had  not  yet  come, 
or  at  least  some  such  crude  but  compara- 
tively desirable  device  as  "strangely 
enough"? 

Improbabilities  of  Character. — ^Like  human 
nature,  too  various  for  specific  classification. 
Most  writers  are  capable  of  at  least  some  un- 
derstanding of  human  nature  and  a  weakness 
along  these  lines  can  be  partly  corrected  by 
a  combination  of  earnest  study  and  sincere 
care.  Failure  to  draw  character  convincingly 
is  an  absolute  limit  to  success  except  in  the 
lowest  grades  of  fiction  and  in  such  uncom- 
mon types  of  story  as  are  in  no  way  depend- 
ent for  interest  upon  fidelity  to  human 
nature. 

The  wire-nerved  heroine  cited  above  is  an 
example.  Any  expression,  thought,  emotion 
or  act  assigned  to  a  character  to  whom,  as 
drawn,  it  would  not  be  natural  helps  destroy 


CONVINCINGNESS  101 

the  reality  of  that  character  —  the  word 
"grievously"  or  "interrelation"  in  the  mouth 
of  an  ignorant,  illiterate  character;  a  thought 
of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  the  mind  of  a  Protest- 
ant during  a  crisis;  a  feeling  of  pity,  not 
specified  as  unusual,  in  a  pitiless  person; 
fumbhng  in  an  emergency  by  a  man  drawn 
as  cool,  clear-headed  and  ready. 

Lack  of  Characterization. — Unless  a  char- 
acter is  given  at  least  a  semblance  of  individ- 
ualization he  will  be  unlike  any  human  in 
real  life  or  else  will  be  like  some  human 
viewed  from  a  distant  mountain-top  or  air- 
ship, in  either  case  unconvincing  as  a  "close 
up."  Yet  in  the  vast  majority  of  submitted 
manuscripts  characters  are  proper  names 
and  nothing  more.  This  will  be  taken  up  in 
the  chapter  on  "Characterization." 

Clanking  Plots. — "The  framework  shows 
through,"  "you  can  hear  the  machinery  go 
round,"  "artificial" — such  plots  are  like  the 
doggerel  whose  author  does  violence  to  both 
content  and  expression  in  order  to  get  at  the 
ends  of  lines  words  that  approximate  a 
rhyme.  Lack  of  plot  is  almost  a  synonym. 
Instead  of  building  a  plot  that  is  the  natural 
result  of  character,  conditions  or  conflicting 


102        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

forces,  the  author  draws  at  will  upon  the  uni- 
verse at  large  for  whatever  elements  will  lend 
what  he  considers  strength  and  effectiveness. 
Since  the  law  of  cause  and  effect  holds  in 
real  life,  such  a  plot  is  unconvincing.  In 
reading  even  published  stories  haven't  you 
often  found  something  said  or  done  that  was 
obviously  put  into  the  story,  not  for  its  in- 
trinsic or  relative  value,  but  solely  for  the 
plot-purpose  of  making  other  things  connect 
and  keep  moving?  And  what  is  the  effect 
upon  your  belief  in  the  story,  upon  your  il- 
lusion? 

Hack  Plots. — I've  forgotten  who  first  said 
that  there  are  only  seven — or  is  it  nine  or 
five? — plots  in  the  world,  but,  whoever  he 
was,  he's  done  a  good  deal  of  damage.  With 
that  hopeless  dictum  looming  before  their 
eyes  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  many 
writers  strive  half-heartedly  or  not  at  all  for 
originalitj'^  of  plot.  Add  this  to  the  majority's 
lack  of  invention,  our  ingrained  habit  of 
copying  and  a  tendency  to  iake  rather  than 
make  and  you  can  see  why  an  editor  can  re- 
ject at  a  glance  a  large  proportion  of  sub- 
mitted stories.  Like  any  other  reader,  he 
has  very  thoroughly  learned  some  scores  of 


CONVINCINGNESS  103 

plots  or  plot  variations  and  doesn't  need  to 
read  them  any  more.  Usually  the  author 
who  turns  in  a  hack  plot  is  the  author  who 
has  little  to  offer  except  plot.  And  cfuite 
often  he  answers  a  rejection  for  hack  plot  by 
quoting  "there  are  only  five  plots  in  the  world 
anyway."  If  that  is  so,  five  is  enough  to  en- 
able better  writers  to  write  better  stories. 

The  patent  objection  to  hack  plots  is  that 
they  have  outworn,  with  all  but  the  newest 
and  most  elemental  readers,  the  power  to 
hold  in  illusion,  therefore  demanding  an  ex- 
tra amount  of  excellence  in  other  factors. 
There  is  also  the  objection  that  this  very  repe- 
tition of  a  formula  identified  wdth  fiction, 
particularly  poor  fiction,  gives  them  at  once 
the  flavor  of  fiction  instead  of  real  life,  and 
successful  illusion  is  thus  made  extremely 
difficult. 

As  a  lonely  little  plea  in  behalf  of  wearied 
editors,  couldn't  you  arrange,  when  you  wish 
to  shoot  or  stab  a  character  without  remov- 
ing him  entirely,  to  wound  him  somewhere 
else  than  in  the  shoulder?  The  bullet  that 
proved  merely  to  have  glanced  off  the  skull 
is  also  rather  overworked.  And  must  you 
turn  for  help  to  overheard  conversations? 


104        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

Coincidence. — Coincidence  is  such  a  favor- 
ite device  for  attaining  a  hack  pot,  a  clanking 
plot  and  improbability  in  general  that  it  calls 
for  a  separate  and  emphatic  warning.  A 
reader's  credence  for  coincidences  is  strictly 
limited,  especially  if  they  are  presented  as 
matters  of  course. 

Hack  Style. — Objectionable  for  the  same 
reason  as  hack  plot.  The  inevitable  connota- 
tion of  hack  words  and  phrases  is  of  the 
"writing  game,"  of  the  printed  page,  of  stor- 
ies sold  for  money,  not  of  real  life — too  "mag- 
aziney"  to  be  successful  in  holding  illusions 
in  which  magazines  can  have  practically  no 
place.  Each  hack  phrase,  moreover,  is  a  lost 
opportunit}'^  for  a  right  phrase  that  would 
have  added  to  effectiveness.  Also,  readers 
are  just  plain  tired  of  them. 

Frames  or  Brackets  and  First-Person  Nar- 
ratives.— Guard  against  letting  the  frame- 
story  character  who  tells  the  real  story  talk 
so  long,  fluently  and  perfectly  that  readers 
will  note  the  impossibility  of  his  performing 
such  a  feat  in  real  life.  First-person  narra- 
tives, not  in  a  frame,  generally  avoid  this  im- 
possibility by  having  the  narrative  written 
instead   of  spoken;   otherwise   they   run   the 


CONVINCINGNESS  105 

same  danger.  Most  of  all,  don't  let  the  nar- 
rator abandon  his  own  speech  for  that  of  the 
author  himself.    He  generally  does. 

Dialect,  Slang,  Foreign  Words. — All  these, 
rightly  used,  tend  toward  convincingness  of 
color  and  character,  but  their  effectiveness  is 
often  measured  by  suggestion  rather  than 
quantity.  Broad  Scotch  dialect  at  full  strength 
will  give  a  very  Scotch  atmosphere,  for  exam- 
ple, but  many  readers  will  refuse  to  enter 
that  atmosphere  or  will  become  lost  in  it  if 
they  do  enter.  Often  idiom  is  a  more  effec- 
tive device  than  dialect. 

Ignorance  of  Material:  Mistakes. — ^There  is, 
heaven  knows,  just  ground  for  the  belief  that 
writers  are  given  to  writing  of  things  with 
which  they  are  not  sufficiently  familiar.  In- 
stead of  using  the  material  they  know  best,  as 
a  class  they  are  too  prone  to  select  the  ma- 
terial they'd  like  to  know  about  but  don't. 
Also  to  feign  a  scholarliness  they  don't  pos- 
sess or  to  attempt  a  style  they  have  not 
mastered. 

Lack  or  loss  of  faith  in  the  author  is  as 
great  a  catastrophe  as  lack  or  loss  of  belief 
in  the  story.  Irritation  against  him  is  still 
more  fatal.    If  you  have  any  doubt,  an  edi- 


106        FUNDAMENTALS  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

tor's  mail  would  dispel  it.  Nothing  brings  so 
many  or  such  bitter  protests  from  readers  as 
a  mistake  in  handling  local  color.  Mark  that 
well,  you  who  "take  a  chance"  because  you 
think  you  can — and  often  do — "get  away  with 
it."  Not  only  do  you  underestimate  the  irrita- 
tion, sometimes  amounting  to  a  virulence  that 
remembers  you  and  follows  you  with  hostility 
through  your  other  stories,  but  your  ignor- 
ance of  setting,  local  color,  material  blinds 
you  to  the  infinite  possibility  for  unconscious 
mistakes  that  are  instantly  detected  by  those 
who  know  and  make  you  ridiculous  in  their 
e3^es. 

Your  dialect,  slang  and  foreign  quotations 
gain  you  no  color  if  you  make  mistakes  in 
them.  Classical,  historical  and  fictional  ref- 
erences, or  "big  words"  in  English,  if  incor- 
rectly used,  give  you  no  reputation  for  schol- 
arliness.  Having  your  villain  run  lightly 
away  with  more  dollars  in  gold  or  dust  than 
he  could  lift  from  the  ground  or  using  an 
"automatic  revolver"  does  not  impress  read- 
ers with  your  knowledge  of  what  you  write 
about.  Giving  Brazilians  Spanish  as  their  na- 
tive tongue  produces  very  unlocal  color.  A 
negro  strain  in  a  pure-blooded  Creole  shows 
no  knowledge  of  types. 


CONVINCINGNESS  107 

Add  to  these  the  mistakes  considered  in  the 
chapter  on  "Distractions,"  add  all  the  other 
mistakes  of  which  the  uninformed  human 
brain  is  capable,  and  then  take  up  your  heavy 
burden  of  becoming  thoroughly  familiar  with 
the  material  you  use  in  stories.  A  month  or 
two  in  a  locality  will  not  give  to  any  save  a 
Kipling  sufficient  familiarity  for  safety. 
Most  writers  think  it  will.  And,  whatever  you 
do,  don't  fool  with  fire-arms  or  with  anything 
pertaining  to  ships  until  you  have  become  a 
real  authority!  I  speak  from  bitter  experi- 
ence; editor,  as  well  as  writer,  becomes  the 
target  for  almost  venomous  ire.  And  no  de- 
tail is  too  tiny  for  detection  and  wrath.  The 
picture  of  a  grizzly  bear  on  a  magazine  cover 
brought  a  vicious  indictment  because,  while 
a  grizzly  has  six  toes,  not  five,  he  does  not 
show  the  sixth  toe  especially  when  in  the 
position  depicted. 

The  convincingness  of  a  story  as  a  whole, 
then,  is  dependent  upon  many  detailed  fac- 
tors and  there  is  some  excuse  for  the  editor 
who  does  not  give  the  analyzed  reasons  for 
his  verdict  of  "unconvincing." 

Such  a  weakness  is  due,  on  one  hand,  to 


108        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

ignorance,  deliberate  indifference  or  almost 
criminal  carelessness  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  failure  to  visualize  clearly  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  reader.  The  most  practical 
remedy,  for  both  classes  of  causes,  is,  aside 
from  the  writer's  own  efforts,  a  fundamental 
change  in  teaching  methods,  putting  far  more 
emphasis  upon  training  writers  to  habitual 
and  very  anxious  consideration  of  the  read- 
er's actual  reactions  to  every  least  stimulus 
in  a  story. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOLDING  THE   READER 

While  most  points  that  bear  here  fall  more 
directly  under  other  headings,  some  defin- 
itely belong  in  this  chapter.  And,  though  I 
know  of  no  recipe  for  being  interesting,  there 
are  certain  things  that  may  be  of  help  to  that 
effort. 

Being  Dramatic. — All  stories,  to  be  inter- 
esting, I  think,  must  be  dramatic,  in  the 
broader  sense  of  the  word,  both  in  style  and 
in  selection  and  recombination  of  material. 
The  very  demand  for  unity  and  structure  is 
a  demand  for  the  dramatic,  the  dramatic 
quality  being  largely  a  matter  of  position  and 
contrast,  and  a  baldly  unemotional  or  matter- 
of-fact  style  can  be  strongly  dramatic 
through  its  contrast  with  the  emotional  ma- 
terial handled.  However,  lest  I  be  confound- 
ed by  the  philosophers,  I'll  discard  "Being 
Dramatic"  .and  attempt  instead,  suggestions 
109 


110        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

as  to  "being  interesting,"  not  with  any  idea  of 
covering  the  subjects  completely  but  rather, 
(as  in  much  of  this  book),  calling  attention  to 
points  on  which  writers  prove  themselves 
particularly  weak  in  actual  practise  and 
which  seem  to  call  for  more  attention  in 
teaching  methods. 

Suspense. — The  chief  warning  needed  is 
not  to  spoil  it  after  you've  secured  it.  Over 
and  over  again  a  writer  ruins  his  reader's 
suspense  by  betraying  the  plot  in  advance  and 
making  a  surprise  impossible.  Sometimes  it 
is  inadvertent,  but  often  it  is  deliberately 
done  by  at  least  a  general  statement  or  hint 
of  outcome  prefaced  with  some  such  phrase 
as  "little  did  I  know  then  that,"  "could  he 
have  known,"  "in  the  light  of  what  followed 
there  was  no  need  for  my  next  step,"  etc.,  or 
even  more  baldly  betraying,  say,  the  outcome 
of  an  entire  book  whose  interest  is  at  least 
partly  based  on  whether  hero  wins  heroine, 
by  such  as  "Now,  with  Nita  and  our  children 
sitting  by  me  as  I  write,  my  doubts  seem  fool- 
ish ones." 

To  me  one  of  the  most  amazing  faults  in 
the  entire  repertoire  is  the  flat  betrayal  of 
plot  by  the  chapter  headings.    Why  do  it?    Is 


HOLDING   THE    READER  111 

it  merely  a  slip  due  to  concentration  on  the 
really  nerve-racking  task  of  choosing  an  in- 
teresting and  pertinent  title  for  the  chapter? 
Or  is  the  habit  of  not  measuring  by  the  read- 
er's reactions  so  strong  that  in  so  prominent 
and  spectacular  a  place  a  writer  does  not 
even  note  that  he  has  advertised  in  advance 
to  readers  the  verj-^  thing  he  should  be  trying 
to  keep  as  a  surprise? 

Surprises. — Be  sure  they  are  legitimate.  It 
is  one  thing  to  shape  a  story  so  that  the 
reader  will  expect  other  than  what  is  to  hap- 
pen, but  quite  another  for  you  to  tell  him  def- 
initely that  he  is  to  expect  the  other.  Yet 
some  writers  do  this. 

Mystery. — Naturalh%  play  upon  human 
curiosity  and  the  human  hunting-instinct 
whenever  opportunity  offers,  but,  as  in  the 
case  of  surprises,  be  sure  your  mystery  struc- 
ture and  detail  play  fair  with  the  reader. 
Here,  too,  you  may  give  him  false  scents  to 
follow,  for  he  accepts  them  as  part  of  the 
game,  but,  to  change  the  figure,  be  sure  that 
the  ladder  by  which  the  goal  is  finally 
reached  has  no  rungs  missing.  And  in  heav- 
en's name  don't  fog  your  story  with  the  need- 
less  mysteries   of  careless   unclearness   and 


112        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

confusion  when  nothing  but  irritation  is  to  be 
gained  by  it. 

Overstrain. — Already  covered.  But  some 
of  its  points  demand  extra  attention  for  the 
sake  of  dramatic  effect. 

Light  and  Shade. — Their  proper  use  is  es- 
sential to  mastery  of  dramatic  effect.  Just  as 
a  square  of  black  on  a  white  sheet  stands  out 
far  blacker  and  stronger  than  on  a  black  one, 
just  so  does  a  strong  scene  stand  out  stronger 
if  preceded  and  perhaps  followed  by  a  quiet 
scene  than  if  merely  one  in  a  succession  of 
strong  scenes.  Such  a  succession,  properly 
handled  for  cumulative  effect  and  steady  rise 
to  a  climax,  may  as  a  whole  be  stronger  than 
an  alternation  of  strong  and  quiet,  but  such  a 
succession  is  itself  a  unit  and  as  such  subject 
to  the  general  law.  There  is  always  the  dan- 
ger of  overstrain  in  its  use. 

The  above  applies,  of  course,  to  the  ele- 
ments within  a  scene,  in  the  make-up  of  a 
character,  or  in  anything  else.  For  example, 
the  traits  of  a  character  all  good  or  all  bad 
are  not  so  vivid  as  those  of  a  character  partly 
good  and  partly  bad — nor  is  the  character  so 
natural. 

The  element  of  unexpectedness  in  the  sense 


HOLDING  THE   READER  113 

of  particularly  sudden  surprise  is  extremely 
effective  by  reason  of  the  sharp  contrast 
involved. 

Repression. — Often  more  effective  than  ex- 
pression of  emotion,  for  the  fundamental  rea- 
son, particularly  in  the  case  of  emotion  felt 
by  a  character,  that,  however  strong  the  emo- 
tion, repression  means  the  addition  of  some- 
thing sufficiently  stronger  to  master  it  and 
of  a  struggle  for  the  mastery,  even  though 
neither  is  definitely  described  in  the  story. 
There  is  contrast  between  emotion  and  will, 
between  the  expression  to  be  expected  and 
the  absence  of  it,  perhaps  between  one  char- 
acter's repression  and  another's  lack  of  it.  In 
the  case  of  repression  by  the  author  in  the 
general  handling  of  a  scene  an  advantage  lies 
in  his  giving  to  each  reader  opportunity  to 
fill  out  the  emotion  in  whatever  way  is  most 
satisfying  and  natural  to  each  from  the  mere  / 
skilful  stimulus  furnished  by  the  author.  If 
this  advantage  seems  slight,  consider  the 
drawings  for  an  illustrated  story.  In  how 
many  cases  does  the  artist's  conception  of 
characters,  scene  and  expression  coincide 
with  that  of  a  reader?  Supposing  it  were 
possible  for  the  artist  to  furnish  only  such 


114        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

suggestions  as  would  enable  each  reader  to 
fill  out  a  picture  in  accordance  with  his  own 
conception,  would  not  each  reader  find  it 
more  satisfying?  Incidentally,  would  it  be 
a  higher  form  of  art? 

Also  there  is  enough  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  in 
our  national  character  to  implant  in  perhaps 
most  of  us  an  impulse  to  run  away  from  too 
free  expression  of  emotion.  A  reader's  im- 
pulse to  run  away  from  a  story  does  not  add 
to  its  effectiveness. 

Certainly  repression  of  emotion  in  the 
sense  of  condensing  the  number  of  words 
used  in  expression  could  be  practised  to  great 
advantage  by  the  majority  of  writers. 

But,  first,  last  and  always,  remember  that 
repressing  emotion  should  seldom  mean  an- 
nihilating. Perhaps  the  correct  idea  is  shown 
by  contrasting  a  spiral  spring  compressed  to 
its  least  space  and  greatest  potential  force 
with  the  same  spring  spent  from  being 
sprung,  or  with  the  absence  of  a  spring. 

Omitting  Scenes. — A  story  is  at  bottom  a 
selection  of  certain  bits  of  material  from  an 
almost  infinite  number  of  bits  or,  put  the 
other  way,  the  rejection  of  all  material  except 
the  salient  bits.     Dramatic  effect  is  often  in- 


HOLDING   THE    READER  115 

creased  by  keying  the  process  of  selection  and 
abstraction  to  a  more  rigid  scale,  even  reject- 
ing comparatively  salient  bits.  For  example, 
a  whole  scene,  though  fitting  into  the  story's 
development,  may  lend  greater  effectiveness 
to  the  whole  by  being  inferred  instead  of  en- 
acted on  stage. 

Condensation. — It  is  safe  to  say  that  many 
writers  could  make  most  of  their  stories  not 
only  more  dramatic  but  more  effective  in 
general  by  greater  condensation.  Those  of 
you,  especially,  who  aim  for  popularity  rather 
than  the  judgment  of  posterity  should  re- 
member that  v.e  live  in  an  age  of  motion-pic- 
tures, that  one  of  their  chief  characteristics 
is  speed,  and  that  our  youth  are  growing  up 
with  that  speed  more  or  less  fixed  in  their 
minds  as  a  standard  for  all  narrative  or  ex- 
pository art.  What  will  they,  consequently, 
demand  of  fiction?  Are  they  becoming  im- 
patient of  what  we  have  considered  the  nor- 
mal speed  of  fiction  narrative?  Just  as  they, 
and  perhaps  we  older  ones,  are  already 
inclined  to  impatience  over  Cooper,  Scott  and 
Dickens,  perhaps  because  steam  and  electric- 
ity have  keyed  us  to  a  faster  gait.  Do  you  not 
find  boys  who  will  throb  over  a  movie  of  The 


116        FUNDAMENTALS  OF  FICTION   WRITING 

Last  of  the  Mohicans  or  The  Three  MuskS' 
teers,  but  who  can  not  be  induced  to  wade 
through  these  stories  in  book  form  as  you  and 
I  so  gladly  waded?  Is  it  merely  that  youth 
welcomes  the  quicker  path  and  that  these 
same  youths  will  in  more  mature  years  turn 
to  the  more  leisurely  presentation?  Even  so, 
a  slower  speed  may  be  losing  them  as 
audience  while  they  are  ripening  sufficiently 
to  prefer  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  do  motion-pictures 
overfeed  us  with  speed  so  that  we  turn  with 
relief  to  the  more  leisurely  methods  of 
fiction  ? 

I  venture  no  final  conclusion,  but  certainly 
the  narrative  art  as  a  whole  moves  faster  than 
it  did  twenty  or  even  ten  years  ago.  Here  is 
opportunity  for  some  college  classes  in  fiction 
or  psychology  to  contribute  exceptionally 
valuable  data  through  laboratory  or  field  ex- 
periments covering  at  least  a  part  of  the 
ground. 

Meanwhile  there  is  no  doubt  that,  by  either 
old  or  new  standard,  most  writers  would 
profit  by  more  condensation.  There  is  no 
surer  way  of  boring  a  reader  than  by  talking 
too  much,  and  even  honey  or  strong  drink  can 


HOLDING   THE   READER  117 

be  diluted  until  it  has  neither  strength  nor 
flavor.  And  remember,  class-rooms,  in  judg- 
ing this  point  from  published  stories,  that  the 
editor  has  frequently  done  the  writer's  con- 
densing for  him  because  of  the  story's  need 
or  the  limitations  of  space. 

Short  vs.  Long  Words  and  Sentences. — Re- 
member that  in  tense  moments  or  under  ex- 
treme emotion  most  men  resort  to  short,  sim- 
ple, Anglo-Saxon  words  and  brief  sentences. 
Remember  that  therefore  short  words  and 
sentences  are  likely  to  be  in  themselves  more 
tense  and  dramatic  and,  though  not  so  gener- 
ally, more  emotional. 

Remember,  too,  the  need  of  avoiding 
monotony  from  any  word-  or  sentence- 
length. 

Handling,  Setting,  Color  and  Character. — 
Holding  the  reader  is  essentially  a  matter  of 
not  being  dull  and  there  is  no  sovereign  cure 
for  dullness,  but  the  following  device  will  go 
a  long  way  toward  avoiding  it. 

Instead  of  giving  the  reader  setting  and 
local  color  in  discouragingly  large  pieces, 
weave  them  into  the  action.  An  old  device, 
to  be  sure,  but  one  much  too  little  used.  In- 
stead of  describing  a  vast  plain,  let  a  charac- 


118        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

ter  ride  over  it,  speak  of  it  or  think  of  it,  thus 
at  the  same  time  developing  scenery,  charac- 
ter and  action  for  the  reader.  If  you  wish  to 
picture  the  plain's  vegetation,  incorporate 
some  of  it  as  even  a  very  minor  plot-factor — 
have  the  rider  pluck  some  of  it,  have  his 
horse's  progress  impeded  by  it,  hide  another 
character  behind  it.  There  are  a  thousand 
ways  of  thus  accomplishing  more  than  one 
thing  at  once.  But  remember,  too,  that  a 
reader  must  be  given  his  general  bearings  as 
soon  as  he  enters  a  story. 

Hack  Work. — Anything  in  j^our  story,  ex- 
cept material  itself,  that  has  been  used  until 
threadbare  by  countless  writers  before  you  is 
"hack  stuff"  and  has  small  chance  of  holding 
your  reader,  for  the  perfectly  simply  reason 
that  he's  tired  of  it  before  he  reads  it. 
Whether  a  matter  of  plot  or  diction  and  no 
matter  how  good  it  was  in  the  beginning,  it  is 
a  handicap  that  only  a  master  can  turn  into 
an  asset.  Avoid,  however,  the  opposite  ex- 
treme of  being  different  to  such  an  extent  or 
so  clumsily  that  your  effort  is  obvious.  I 
know  of  no  recipe  for  avoiding  "hack  stuff" 
■ — no  more  than  for  avoiding  lack  of  individu- 
ality and  other  little  matters  of  that  kind,  but 


HOLDING   THE    RE.\DER  119 

surelj'^  a  writer  of  even  moderate  discernment 
can  detect  and  correct  this  fault  in  some  de- 
gree by  taking  pains  to  note  and  avoid  the 
elements  that  recur  most  frequently  in  poor 
or  mediocre  fiction.  Unfortunately  most 
"writers  begin  by  copying  (unconscious  copy- 
ing, while  more  ethical,  is  harder  to  correct 
than  is  deliberate  copying)  and  your  natural 
copier  is  not  likely  to  be  overly  intelligent  in 
choice  of  models. 

Titles  and  Chapter  Headings. — This  sub- 
ject is  too  large  for  discussion  here,  since  it 
involves  the  psychology  of  both  fiction  and 
advertising,  but  three  rules  can  be  given :  (1) 
Aim  at  the  very  heart  of  the  subject-matter 
for  your  general  title  idea;  (2)  don't  let  them 
betray  too  much  in  advance,  but  make  them 
"lure";  (3)  select  chapter  heads  with  almost 
as  much  care  as  titles,  for  they  are  of  great 
psychological  importance. 


CHAPTER  X 

PLEASING  THE  READER 

Divide  all  readers  into  majority  and  minor- 
ity. It  is  legitimate  and  profitable  to  aim  at 
either.  Now  make  your  big  decision,  and  it 
is  a  very  big  one.  At  which  of  these  will  you 
aim?  If  the  majority,  study  and  analyze  their 
tastes  and  reactions.  If  the  minority,  study 
and  analyze  the  majority  first;  then  study  the 
minority.  Their  tastes  are  not  necessarily 
opposite,  but  they  are  necessarily  different, 
also  various;  the  minority  are  a  unit  only  in 
being  different  from  the  majority.  But  you 
can  reach  them  fairly  well  merely  by  giving 
them  the  opposite  of  what  the  majority  like. 
Your  problem  is  whether  you  can  get  a  bet- 
ter slice  of  attention  from  the  majority  of 
readers  in  competition  with  the  majority  of 
writers  or  from  the  minority  of  readers  in 
competition  with  a  minority  of  writers. 

Majority  vs.  Minority. — Your  own  peculiar 
120 


PLEASING  THE  READER  121' 

gifts  and  inclinations  in  writing  should  be  the 
deciding  factor,  but  you  can  make  no  intelli- 
gent decision  until  you  really  have  some  un- 
derstanding of  the  two  groups  between  which 
you  must  decide.  If  j^ou  write  for  money 
only,  study  them  till  you  have  your  human- 
nature  formulas  at  your  finger-ends  and 
almost  automatically  apply  them  to  every 
idea,  expression  or  bit  of  material  that 
comes  up  for  consideration.  If  you  write  for 
art  only,  study  them  just  the  same  (you'll  be 
getting  the  best  material  in  the  world),  but 
instead  of  turning  the  results  into  formulas 
turn  them  into  your  understanding.  If  you 
write  according  to  the  method — commonly 
called  inspiration  and  attributed  to  what  we, 
sometimes  hastily,  term  genius — of  merely 
exploding  yourself  into  the  world  at  large 
without  deigning  to  look  at  said  world,  con- 
tinue to  explode  as  usual,  but  when  your 
creation  is  all  created  go  over  it  with  pencil, 
blue-pencil  and  waste-basket  in  the  light  of 
knowledge  and  understanding  of  whichever 
audience  you  prefer  as  target,  and  make  very, 
very  sure  that  what  you  inspired  into  your 
story  is  going  to  reach  that  audience  just  as 
you  intended  it  should  and  is  going  to  please 


122        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

and  interest  them  as  much  as  you  fondly 
imagined. 

For,  you  see,  you  are  almost  certainly  not 
a  genius.  A  genius  makes  his  own  rules  and 
they  are  better  for  his  case  than  are  any  rules 
other  people  can  make  for  him.  If  any  genius 
is  by  strange  chance  reading  this  book  I  hope 
he  will  stop  and  read  no  other  in  place  of  it. 
He  will  almost  surely  do  far  better  without. 
God  knows  the  world  is  too  full  of  rules  for 
writing  fiction  and  of  people  who  allow  the 
rules  to  ride  them  out  of  all  ability  to  use  the 
rules.  The  proper  function  of  rules  is  that  of 
mere  guides  and  suggestions  to  be  weighed, 
analyzed,  and  then  either  discarded  or  so 
thoroughly  absorbed  that  their  application 
during  the  act  of  creating  is  automatic  and 
subconscious  and  their  use  as  tests  after 
creating  is  no  more  than  the  author's  own 
spontaneously  critical  view  of  what  he  has 
written.  Nothing  in  this  book  is  intended  to 
hang  like  a  "Do  it  now"  motto  on  the  author's 
wall;  its  one  intention  is  to  give  him  a  fresh 
point  of  view  and  the  kind  of  foundation  that 
will  enable  him  to  make  liis  own  rules  out  of 
his  own  understanding. 

In  this  book  we  are  concerned  primarily 


PLEASING  THE   READER  123 

with  the  majority  of  readers  and,  unless  oth- 
erwise specified,  have  in  mind  his  likings  and 
reactions. 

Choice  of  Material  and  Theme. — ^The  ma- 
jority of  readers  would  probably  value  their 
lives  above  any  other  selfish  consideration — 
life  in  the  sense  of  existence  but  also  in  the 
sense  of  health  and  vigor.  Next,  such  things 
as  love,  success,  wealth,  happiness,  uplift, 
knowledge,  beauty  and  contest,  not  necessar- 
ily in  the  order  named.  These,  or  combina- 
tions of  these,  such  as  success  in  a  contest 
for  life  or  love  or  wealth,  offer  a  safe  begin- 
ning in  selecting  material  or  a  theme  for  fic- 
tion. These  are  the  fundamental  things  vital 
to  human  beings.  The  further  you  get  from 
them,  the  more  must  you  approach  appeal  to 
a  minority.  (The  majority,  of  course,  does 
not  always  consist  of  the  same  individuals, 
but  merely  of  most  individuals,  and  shifts  in 
membership  more  or  less  with  each  shift  of 
point  at  issue.) 

Happiness. — Human  beings  would  on  the 
whole  rather  be  happy  than  unhappy.  There- 
fore happy  themes  and  pleasant  material  are 
surest  for  pleasing  the  majority.  Generally 
speaking,  people  read  fiction  for  entertain- 


124        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

ment  and  prefer  feeling  happier  rather  than 
unhappier  when  they  lay  down  a  story. 
Sympathy,  morbidness  and  a  desire  to  play 
with  the  fire  of  fear,  horror  and  suffering 
give  rise  to  contrary  tastes  in  fiction,  the 
drama  and  other  forms  of  art,  but  the  gener- 
al, fundamental  desire  is  for  happiness. 

What  is  happiness?  I  attempt  no  defini- 
tion. One  man  knows  probably  as  well  as  any 
other.  All  of  us  can  watch  other  human  be- 
ings and  have  a  very  fair  idea  of  what  makes 
most  of  them  happy. 

Generalizations  on  human  nature  are  un- 
safe but,  to  take  an  extreme  case,  a  story  of 
cripples,  deformities  and  disease,  unless  this 
material  is  very  strongl}'^  counteracted  with 
success,  love,  sympathy,  etc.,  would  please 
none  but  abnormal  readers.  Deformities 
and  disease  offend  the  inherent  love  of  life, 
health  and  beauty.  Again,  the  majority  pre- 
fer non-tragic  stories,  preferring  to  think  of 
life  rather  than  death,  of  success  rather  than 
unsuccess. 

Let  rae  make  it  emphatically  plain  that  I 
am  attempting  no  such  foolish  tiling  as  a  cata- 
logue of  material  for  fiction.  My  one  purpose 
is  to  lead  the  writer  into  doing  what  he  so 


PLEASING  THE   READER  125 

often  fails  to  do — consider  his  material  very 
carefully  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  prob- 
able reactions  of  human  beings  instead  of 
choosing  it  according  to  God  knows  what  silly 
rules  for  writing  fiction  or  merely  repeating 
the  material  and  themes  he  has  seen  that 
other  writers  use. 

A  few  stray  points  may  be  of  some  service : 

The  beginners  and  the  very  young  are  as  a 
class  the  writers  most  given  to  tragedy  and 
morbidness.  As  they  develop  they  generally 
change  to  more  cheerful  material. 

The  percentage  of  tragic  and  morbid  stories 
would  dwindle  rapidly  if  it  were  not  for  the 
empty  writer's  desire  to  "do  something 
strong"  and  his  inability  to  get  strength  in 
any  other  way. 

The  horror  story  has  its  legitimate  place, 
as  has  any  story  dealing  with  human  emo- 
tions, which  are  the  very  heart-food  of  fiction 
and  of  unfailing  interest  to  the  human  read- 
ers. Suffering,  unsuccess,  death,  all  the  un- 
pleasant things  you  please,  are  good  fiction 
material.  But,  if  I  may  make  the  distinction, 
they  are  good,  not  because  they  hurt,  but  be- 
cause, like  happier  things,  they  appeal  to  the 
readers'  human  sympathy  and  understanding. 


126        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

Since  I  shall  not  give  it  space  anywhere 
else,  the  question  of  realism  versus  idealism 
may  be  dragged  in  here  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  readers'  lildng.  When  I  first 
came  to  New  York,  in  youthful  throes  over 
this  and  similar  momentous  questions,  I  had 
the  good  fortune  of  a  letter  to  William  Dean 
Howells  and,  trembling  at  this  God-given  op- 
portunity, broached  my  chief  problem.  Mr. 
Howells  was  incapable  of  anything  but  gen- 
tleness, and  the  process  of  his  gentleness  in 
my  case  was  so  kindly  that  its  words  are  no 
longer  clear  in  my  memory,  but  the  gist  of  his 
reply  is  very  clear  indeed.  He  told  me  to  go 
ride  on  a  Fifth  Avenue  bus  and  write  down 
whatever  caught  the  attention  of  a  young  man 
fresh  to  New  York.  I  pass  on  to  others  that 
very  excellent  advice.  Go  ride  on  a  bus  or 
sit  still  somewhere  and  write  about  whatever 
catches  your  attention.  The  question  of 
whether  the  result  is  realism  or  idealism  is 
one  you  can  afford  to  forget,  for  the  main 
point  is  that  you  should  follow  your  own  par- 
ticular gift  for  seeing  life.  The  only  attention 
you  need  give  the  result  is  consideration  of 
its  appeal  to  people  in  general,  changing  or 
not  changing  the  result  according  to  the  rela- 


PLEASING   THE   READER  127 

tive  value  you  assign  to  popularity  and  art, 
remembering  that  the  two  need  not  be  mu- 
tually exclusive  goals  and  that  either  realism 
or  idealism  finds  response  in  a  sufficient 
number  of  readers. 

The  Philosophy  of  Fiction. — Doubtless 
there  are  a  hundred  explanations  of  the  fun- 
damental appeal  of  fiction  to  human  beings. 
That  given  by  George  Henry  Lewes  seems 
particularly  illuminating  and  practically 
helpful. 

It  is,  in  substance,  as  I  recollect  it: 

Fiction  appeals  to  man  because  it  enables 
him  to  attain  vicariously,  through  the  charac- 
ters in  the  story  world,  the  perfection  and  suc- 
cess he  can  not  attain  in  real  life,  and  to  live 
for  a  while  in  a  world  of  his  own  choosing 
instead  of  in  the  real  world  that  has  been 
thrust  upon  him. 

The  first  part  of  this  definition  does  not 
seem  to  apply  to  realistic  and  analytical  fic- 
tion, though  the  second  part  does,  nor  does 
any  of  the  definition  seem  to  take  sufficient 
account  of  the  reader's  enjoyment  of  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  sympathies  or  the  broadening  of 
his  understanding  and  knowledge  or  of  his 
sheer  joy  in  artistic  excellence.    This  appar- 


128        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

ent  failure  to  cover  the  ground,  however,  is 
not  so  real  as  it  seems.  Joy  over  artistic  ex- 
cellence is  essentially  a  critic's  feeling,  not  a 
reader's — the  joy  of  a  technician,  not  of  a 
recipient,  of  a  cook,  not  of  a  diner.  And  if 
you  will  apply  my  distinction  between  fiction 
and  the  various  things  for  which  fiction  is  a 
mere  vehicle,  the  contributions  to  understand- 
ing and  knowledge  are  not  a  part  of  fiction 
itself  and  therefore  need  not  be  covered  by 
the  definition.  The  exercise  of  the  reader's 
sympathies  may  also  be  accounted  for  by 
strict  application  of  this  distinction;  or  the 
"vicarious  perfection  and  success"  of  the  def- 
inition may  be  broadened  to  a  comparison  of 
the  reader's  own  life  with  lives  of  the  story 
people,  better  here,  worse  there,  either  stimu- 
lating variety  and  satisfaction  or  affording 
the  vicarious  improvement  of  condition. 

But,  whether  or  not  you  consider  the  defini- 
tion all  inclusive,  there  is  in  it  a  fundamental 
idea  whose  practical  application  would  go  far 
toward  winning  for  most  writers  a  far  strong- 
er and  deeper  hold  on  readers.  Sophomoric 
critics  and  writers  may  be  inclined  to  sweep 
it  off  the  boards,  since  it  both  deals  with  fun- 
damentals   and    undermines   some   habitual 


PLEASING  THE   READER  129 

angles  of  criticism,  but  most  submitted  manu- 
scripts and  perhaps  most  published  fiction 
would  be  much  stronger  if  the  writers  thereof 
had  made  intelligent  application  of  an  intelli- 
gent understanding  of  this  principle.  Perfec- 
tion and  success  have  in  them  the  element  of 
completeness,  and  completeness  is  a  funda- 
mental desire  of  the  human  being,  partly  be- 
cause of  the  pleasant  restfulness  of  its 
attainment. 

I  do  not  say  that  every  story  should  reek 
with  success  and  perfection,  but  I  do  say  that 
before  you  even  partly  eliminate  these  fac- 
tors you  should  have  an  intelligent  under- 
standing of  what  you  are  doing  and  should 
sacrifice  them  only  for  such  other  factors  or 
elements  as  you  are  sure  will  more  than  com- 
pensate in  the  particular  case. 

Also  I  say,  without  hesitation  or  qualifica- 
tion, that,  in  the  type  of  story  containing  little 
or  no  fundamental  appeal  other  than  a  march 
of  events  and  the  success  of  a  more  or  less 
perfect  hero  or  heroine  (the  type  that  in- 
cludes the  large  majority  of  submitted  manu- 
scripts) the  application  of  this  principle 
means  an  incalculable  increase  in  effective- 
ness.   In  other  words,  if  the  presentation  of 


130        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

success  and  perfection  constitutes  a  funda- 
mental appeal  to  readers,  see  to  it  that  you 
give  these  things  in  rich  measure  unless  you 
compensate  fully  for  their  absence  or  partial 
absence. 

Note  that  these  elements  are  given  lavishly 
in  the  "dime-novel"  type  of  story.  This  is 
probably  the  lowest  type  of  all  (not  because 
of  the  superabundance  of  action,  but  because 
of  unnaturalness  and  all-round  poor  work- 
manship), yet  its  audience  is  huge  and  its 
hold  on  them  tremendous.  And  if  you  think 
this  audience  is  limited  to  the  unsophisticated 
and  the  very  young,  you  are  vastly  mistaken ; 
that  hold  is  too  fundamental  for  a  majority 
of  even  our  cultured  classes  to  escape  from 
if  it  is  given  fair  opportunity.  To  advance 
exciting  and  abundant  action  as  the  sole 
cause  for  this  hold,  as  is  commonly  done,  does 
not  sufficiently  account  for  it.  The  proof  is 
that  practically  none  of  these  stories  is  will- 
ing to  trust  to  action  alone  for  popularity. 
They  almost  always  include  another  factor. 
And  that  factor  is  the  double  one  of  the  suc- 
cess and  perfection  of  the  hero.  The  authors 
of  such  stories  may  include  this  factor  only 
because  they  have  seen  others  do  so  and  may 


PLEASING  THE   READER  131 

not  analyze  bej^ond  "people  like  it,"  but  in 
that  analj^sis  they  are  thinking  straighter  and 
truer  than  are  most  of  the  learned  and  schol- 
arly exponents  and  critics  of  the  writing  art 
who  lose  themselves,  their  goal  and  their  fol- 
lowers in  a  maze  of  artificial  regulations  and 
meaningless  formalities. 

Reality. — To  preserve  balance,  let  us  leap  to 
the  opposite  point  of  view  and  review  in  our 
minds  what  was  said  in  the  chapter  on  con- 
vincingness. For  the  reader's  pleasure  in 
vicarious  success  and  perfection  to  have 
soundness  and  stability,  or  for  any  other  fic- 
tion purpose  I  can  conceive,  the  story  world 
must  be  a  reproduction  of  our  real  world  or 
of  a  modified  real  world  consistent  within 
itself.  Part  of  a  reader's  fiction  enjoyment 
lies  in  his  familiarity  with  things  presented, 
in  finding  things  in  their  proper  place,  in  the 
vanity  of  "I  know  that  already."  That  a  hero 
should  attain  remarkably  complete  success  is 
acceptable  to  our  reason  because  such  success 
is  frequently  attained  in  real  life.  But  a  hero 
made  remarkably  perfect  in  all  respects  is 
likely  to  be  too  much  for  our  common  sense 
and  to  break  the  story's  hold  on  us.  "There 
ain't  no  such  animile;"  we  know  it,  and,  how- 


132        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

ever  much  the  joys  of  vicarious  perfection 
may  lure  us  along  through  the  story,  the  illu- 
sion is  seriously  weakened. 

The  obvious  remedy  is  a  balanced  middle 
course. 

Giving  Characters  Strong  Appeal. — In  fol- 
lowing this  middle  course  the  need  in  fiction 
to-day,  aside  from  the  dime-novel  type,  is 
more  emphasis  on  the  perfection  element, 
not  less.  (Incidentally,  it  would  help  charac- 
terize a  hero,  and  an  appalling  percentage  of 
submitted  manuscripts  lack  even  that 
amount  of  characterization.)  Give  your  hero 
or  heroine  sufficient  faults  and  weak  points 
to  make  him  as  human  and  fallible  as  you 
please,  but  give  him  also  the  strong  elemental 
appeal  of  being  close  to  the  limit  of  human 
perfection  in  one  or  two  traits  of  character, 
or  phj^sical  or  mental  characteristics,  or  along 
one  or  possibly  two  lines  of  ability.  Unless, 
of  course,  you  are  fully  prepared  to  counter- 
act the  loss  of  this  valuable  asset  with  other 
elements.  A  sadly  large  proportion  of 
would-be  writers  are  not  thus  prepared,  and 
many  a  story  by  a  skilled  author  could  have 
been  improved  by  an  understanding  use  of 
this  element. 


PLEASING  THE   READER  133 

The  same  principles  apply  in  less  degree 
to  minor  characters.  Villains,  of  course,  aim 
at  perfection  in  evil  and  their  success  gener- 
ally must  cease  at  whatever  point  will  render 
the  hero's  success  most  effective,  but  in  their 
case  the  conflict  between  naturalness  and 
success-perfection  is  often  easily  avoided  by 
the  simple  and  effective  device  of  giving  your 
villain  a  quite  human  allowance  of  com- 
mendable or  pleasing  perfections,  leaving  the 
net  villain-product  as  evil  as  you  please — 
the  engaging  villain,  the  fascinating  rascal, 
the  merely  human  trouble-maker. 

The  usual  fundamental  compensation  for 
a  story's  lack  of  perfection  and  success  appeal 
is  the  appeal  to  the  reader's  sympathy  with 
elements  similar  to  those  in  himself  or  his 
life,  including  the  appeal  to  his  sj^mpathy  for 
those  suffering  or  enjoying  as  he  has  done. 
Personally  I'm  rather  inclined  to  believe  the 
substitute  not  quite  so  effective,  the  other 
appeal  seeming  the  more  elemental  and 
therefore  the  stronger  of  the  two.  Lewes' 
definition  can  be  made  sufficiently  inclusive 
if  we  say  that  fiction's  hold  is  due  to  its  en- 
abling the  human  being  to  live  life  vica- 
riously, at  his  own  pleasure,  on  his  own  initia- 


134        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   ^VRITING 

live  and  always  as  the  ultimate  controller  of 
destiny,  since  he  can  at  any  moment  toss  the 
story  aside,  wiping  out  the  entire  stoiy  world. 
But  if  this  is  so,  isn't  it  safe  to  say  that  the 
normal  human  being  on  the  whole  prefers 
pleasure  to  pain  and  finds  more  pleasure  in 
success  and  perfection  than  in  failure  and 
imperfection?  Psychologists  can  justly  re- 
tort with,  "But  what  are  pleasure  and  pain?" 
The  common-sense  answer  to  that  is  that  the 
psychologists  can't  agree  among  themselves 
upon  a  definition,  that  fiction  is  not  written 
for  psychologists  but  for  people  in  general, 
and  that  most  of  us  have  a  sufficiently  defin- 
ite idea  of  what  pleases  people  in  general  and 
what  is  disagreeable  to  them. 

When  jj-ou  come  to  the  chapter  on  "Char- 
acter" consider  in  connection  wdth  some  of 
the  points  suggested  there  the  points  here 
suggested  as  to  perfection  of  hero.  Both 
there  and  here  it  might  pay  to  run  over  in 
your  mind  the  story  characters  that  have  best 
stood  the  test  of  ages,  from  "Achilles,"  "Ulys- 
ses" and  the  faithful  "Achates"  up  to  modern 
times.  Best  of  all,  forget  you  are  a  writer  and 
as  a  reader  shake  yourself  free  for  a  few  mo- 
ments from  all  book  learning  and  culture,  all 


PLEASING  THE   READER  135 

preconceived  ideas,  all  opinions  of  all  critics 
and  very  particularly  free  from  self-decep- 
tion. Reduce  yourself  thus  to  a  plain,  com- 
mon or  garden  human  being,  open  to  any 
natural  impulses  or  likings  and  honestly  will- 
ing to  recognize  and  confess  them.  Then 
pick  out  the  heroes  or  heroines  you  most 
enjoy,  that  have  the  strongest  hold  on  your 
liking,  being  careful  not  to  test  by  the  literary 
criteria  that  have  been  imposed  on  you.  If 
3'ou  do  this  honestly  and  keenly  you  may  not 
wholly  agree  with  my  point  of  view,  but  I'll 
venture  you'll  consider  your  time  well  spent 
and  that  your  allegiance  to  various  learned 
dicta  may  be  somewhat  shaken.  Particularly 
if  you  habitually  identify  yourself  with  the 
heroes  as  you  read,  don't  you  find  yourself 
reveling  in  a  hero's  superior  wdt,  grace,  come- 
liness, strength  or  skill?  Isn't  this  proud  joy 
in  him  something  deeper  and  more  abiding 
than  tests  imposed  by  sophistication?  Be 
honest. 

To  get  at  the  whole  matter  from  a  different 
angle,  don't  human  beings  like  to  idealize? 

One  other  point.  When  the  world  was 
young  the  individual  rose  or  fell,  lived  or 
died,  in  accordance  with  the  degree  of  his 


136        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

physical  strength,  skill,  courage  and  beauty. 
Mental  and  moral  values  were  later  factors. 
The  physical  is  the  most  elemental,  the  most 
deeply  rooted,  in  the  race.  Also,  so  long  as 
we  have  wars  and  policemen,  it  remains  the 
strongest,  the  court  of  last  appeal.  A  thou- 
sand years  from  now  it  may  have  sunk  into 
comparative  oblivion,  but  even  then  the  ra- 
cial instinct  of  respect  and  admiration  for  it 
will  persist.  If  you  doubt  its  greater  hold  on 
human  beings  at  large,  forget  books  and 
study  people — not  just  one  class  or  type  but 
people  in  general.  No,  I  am  not  a  material- 
ist; the  moral  or  mental  can  overcome  the 
physical,  but  it  is  the  physical  that  is  there 
first,  that  is  the  more  elemental  in  matters  of 
liking  and  disliking,  the  strongest  in  natural 
impulse.  And  what  I  am  trying  to  drive 
home  is  the  need  of  greater  consideration  of 
the  elemental  likes  and  dislikes  of  readers, 
for  they  are  being  forgotten  under  the  more 
vocal  and  visible  likes  and  dislikes  imposed 
by  a  civilization  and  culture  often  artificial 
and  therefore  weaker. 

Why  not,  then,  whenever  you  can  do  so 
without  sacrifice  of  values  more  important  to 
the  particular  case   (as  you  generally  can). 


PLEASING  THE   READER  137 

see  to  it  that  your  hero  makes  this  fundamen- 
tal appeal  in  some  way? 

On  the  otiier  hand,  remember  the  facts  of 
life.  Listen  to  the  following  from  William 
Ashley  Anderson,  a  writer  who,  though  an 
American,  fought  through  the  British  East 
African  campaign  and  has  spent  a  good 
many  of  his  years  in  meeting  life  in  the  raw 
at  far  corners  of  the  world  as  well  as  life  in 
its  softer  centers : 

"Villains  who  always  look  like  monsters 
strike  me  as  burlesque. 

"Villainous-looking  men  are  frequently 
good-hearted  and  heroic.  Good-looking  men 
may  be  fiends.  Character  is  really  indicated 
more  by  expression  than  features — and  a 
clever  villain  can  control  his  expression. 
Primitive  types,  of  course,  betray  themselves 
most  easily.  The  expression  of  the  most 
cruel  men  is  usually  dull,  stupid,  hungry — or 
with  a  look  of  wildness  or  concentration  in 
the  eyes.  A  good  man,  drunk,  maj'  become 
an  arch-villain.  His  looks  then  might  be  the 
looks  of  an  arch-villain;  sober,  he  might  have 
the  appearance  of  an  angel.  'Lucifer  was  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  the  angels'! 

"By  the  same  token  the  employment  of 
handsome,  powerful  heroes  is  often  exasper- 
ating. On  the  average,  handsome  men  are 
less  likely  to  be  brave  than  homely  men — 
because  of  the  very  fact  that  they  are  hand- 
some; and  a  man  with  pretty  features  seldom 
has  a  strong  character  (since  the  character  is 


138        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

often  spoiled  by  too  much  praise  in  youth,  or 
too  much  flattery  from  women  after  reaching 
adolescence).  You  remember  Caesar's  en- 
counter with  Pompey,  when  the  former  in- 
structed his  hard-bitten  veterans  to  strike  at 
the  faces  of  the  handsome  soldiers  of 
Pompey. 

"It  is  a  fact  that  a  man  conscious  of  a  hand- 
some set  of  teeth  recoils  more  at  the  thought 
of  losing  several  of  them  from  a  blow  than 
he  does  at  the  idea  of  broken  limbs." 

Poor  Heroes,  Heroines  and  Villains. — By 
all  means  do  not  idealize  into  such  perfection 
and  success  that  j^our  characters  are  unhu- 
man  and  unconvincing,  but,  I  implore  you,  in 
making  them  human  do  not  add  any  recruits 
to  the  great  army  of  main  characters  who  are 
unintentionally  presented  as  imbecile.  Some- 
times carelessness  is  responsible  for  this 
stupidity,  but  generally  the  cause  is  the  writ- 
er's surrender  to  the  difficulties  of  plot — it 
is  so  easy  to  keep  the  plot  machineiy  clank- 
ing along  by  having  the  hero  become  a  tem- 
porary idiot.  Misunderstanding  may  be  the 
basis  of  tragedy  and  drama,  but  a  man  can 
misunderstand  without  qualifying  for  an 
asylum  for  the  feeble-minded. 

Please  also  lend  your  efforts  to  the  needed 
work  of  abolishing  the  heroine,  supposed  to 


PLEASING  THE   READER  139 

be  all  that  is  most  worth  striving  for,  who  is 
really  empty  of  everything  except  vanity,  false 
pride,  criielt}'  and  sublime  selfishness — who, 
at  her  worst,  offers  her  hand  to  the  winner 
of  a  contest  or  the  performer  of  some  feat. 
I  wdsh  some  one  would  organize  a  writers' 
league  whose  members  were  pledged  either 
not  to  let  their  heroes  leap  into  the  arena  at 
her  bidding  or  to  have  them,  after  recovering 
her  glove,  throw  it  in  her  face.  But  I  fear  she 
will  continue  to  hold  sway  undetected,  as  she 
does  in  real  life.  Perhaps  the  heroes  are  as 
bad,  but  I  am  a  man  myself. 

Moral  Values. — Nearly  all  people  are 
moral  to  the  extent  of  preferring  good  to  bad 
when  they  have  nothing  at  stake,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, when  reacting  to  merely  imaginaiy 
people  in  a  story.  They  side  with  the  hero 
against  the  villain. 

Readers  with  a  discriminating  sense  of 
moral  values  are  likely  to  be  alienated  by  a 
character,  supposed  to  be  good,  who  is  made 
to  act  contrary  to  good  morals  or  ethics  by 
the  apparently  unconscious  author.  Readers 
without  this  discriminating  sense  are  a  moral 
responsibility  laid  upon  the  author;  he  is 
culpable  if  he  still  further  befogs  their  dis- 


140        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

crimination  between  right  and  wrong  by  win- 
ning their  approval  of  a  character  and  then 
letting  that  character  seduce  them  unawares 
into  bad  ethics. 

Fiction  is  more  than  a  reflection  of  the 
times;  it  is  a  builder  of  its  contemporaneous 
thought  and  morality.  If  I  were  asked  to 
name  the  five  greatest  influences  upon  the 
character  of  a  people  I  should  most  emphat- 
ically'^ include  fiction  and  it  would  be 
nearer  first  than  last  among  the  five.  Watch 
its  effect  upon  your  child.  If  you  are  of  an- 
alytical turn,  seek  far  back  in  memory  for  the 
origin  of  j'^our  own  ethical  standards  and 
ideals,  or  for  the  influences  that  strengthened 
or  weakened  them.  Watch  the  mass  of  peo- 
ple respond  to  the  standards  held  up  by  fic- 
tion— and  by  the  drama,  motion-pictures  and 
other  forms  of  art.  Do  not  swallow  the  ex- 
cuse that  they  "only  give  what  the  people 
demand";  those  of  you  on  the  "inside"  will 
know  better. 

I  know  the  defenses  offered  for  the  pica- 
resque story.  I  am  familiar  with  the  plea  of 
"art  for  art's  sake."  It  seems  to  me  mere  idle 
talk.  Art  is  for  life,  not  life  for  art,  and  if 
art,  however  justified  by  its  own  laws,  pol- 


PLEASING  THE   READER  141 

lutes  the  soul  of  a  people,  then  the  cause  of 
that  pollution  should  be  wiped  out. 

Realism  and  the  spread  of  knowledge  can 
justify  a  picture  of  life  as  it  is,  though  too 
often  the  author's  real  Interest  is  not  in  the 
reality  of  what  he  presents  but  in  its  ugliness. 
An  author  is  justified  in  using  fiction  as  an 
instrument  against  what  he  sincerely  believes 
mistaken  morality,  though  his  own  morality 
is  impeached  if  he  ventures  his  dissent  with- 
out most  anxious  consideration  of  the  serious- 
ness of  what  he  is  doing.  But  there  is  no  ex- 
cuse whatever  for  presenting  ugliness  as 
beauty,  crime  dressed  in  honor,  vice  as  ad- 
mirable, crookedness  as  amusing,  rottenness 
as  normal,  evil  as  good.  He  who  makes  a 
criminal  a  hero  is  playing  with  hell-fire,  if  I 
may  use  so  old-fashioned  a  metaphor.  He  who 
writes  a  story  of  crime  triumphant  is  a  de- 
baucher  of  public  morals.  He  who  presents, 
however  bedecked  and  disguised,  a  parasite, 
a  fop,  a  hypocrite,  a  brute,  a  crook,  as  admir- 
able is  a  dry-rot  in  the  heart  of  the  people.  He 
who  fills  his  stories  with  sex,  not  for  the  pur- 
poses of  honest  realism  but  for  the  sake  of 
sex-exciting  more  nickels  from  human  beings, 
is  far  lower  and  less  courageous  than  the  pimp. 


142        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

I  can  not  ask  you  to  accept  my  point  of 
view  in  these  matters,  yet,  because  of  the 
broadcast,  invidious  evil  involved  and  be- 
cause the  morality  of  fiction  seems  a  thing 
seldom  touched  upon  by  text-books,  I  do  ask 
that  you  weigh  your  responsibilities.  A  sur- 
prising number  of  offenses  are  purely  inad- 
vertent and  are  eagerly  corrected  by  the 
authors  when  pointed  out,  for  most  writers 
are  not  evil  in  intent.  These  slips,  at  least, 
can  be  more  guarded  against,  for  they  are 
due  more  to  lack  of  careful  weighing  than 
to  lack  of  a  moral  sense.  One  common  and 
easily  detected  lapse  is  the  use  of  the  princi- 
ple that  the  end  justifies  the  means — the  phil- 
anthropic criminal,  for  example,  by  emulat- 
ing whom  any  one  can  justify  almost 
anything  he  wishes  to  do. 

From  the  purely  practical  point  of  view 
these  things  are  for  the  most  part  irritations 
to  the  discriminating.  Often  with  the  undis- 
criminating  they  add  nothing  to  the  story's 
effectiveness,  though  operating  in  real  life 
after  the  story  itself  is  forgotten.  As  to  the 
popular  and  financial  success  of  polluting 
fiction  you  will  notice  that  the  public  is  suf- 
ficiently sound  usually  to  react  eventually. 


PLEASING   THE   READER  143 

especially  if  given  half  a  chance,  against  the 
very  thing  it  has  embraced. 

Needless  Offenses. — Write  it  down  in  red 
ink  that  any  slur  upon  any  religion  that 
creeps  into  your  story  will  cause  everything 
else  to  be  forgotten  by  some  of  your  readers 
in  their  indignation  over  that  affront.  And 
make  up  your  mind  that  anything  offering  ""\ 
even  the  most  remote  possibility  of  being  / 
twisted  into  a  slur  will  assuredly  be  so  / 
twisted.  Protestants,  Catholics,  Jews,  Scien-/ 
lists,  all  have  representatives  with  chips  bal- 
anced on  the  edge  of  their  shoulders. 
Generally  the  slur  is  taken  as  a  deliberate  in- 
sult on  the  part  of  both  author  and  editor, 
often  as  sure  evidence  of  a  systematic  cam- 
paign of  propaganda.  If  the  hero  happens  to 
be  a  minister,  priest,  rabbi  or  reader,  other 
sects  accuse  you  of  propaganda  in  favor  of 
the  particular  religion  involved.  If  the  vil- 
lain happens  to  be  one  of  these,  then  it  is 
followers  of  the  religion  involved  who  com- 
plain. More,  the  villain  need  be  only  a  fol- 
lower of  some  religion  to  convict  you  of 
felonious  assault  upon  that  religion  itself. 

Fortunately,  villains  generally  have  no  reli- 
gion to  speak  of,  but  sometimes  it  is  essential 


144        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

to  the  story's  best  interests  to  include  them 
at  least  formally  in  some  particular  fold. 
When  it  is,  do  so,  taking  care  to  avoid  any 
faint  suggestion  of  connection  between  their 
villainy  and  their  faith.  The  type  of  mind 
that  considers  the  villainy  of  a  single  fictional 
character  an  attack  on  a  religion  as  a  whole 
can  be  given  consideration  only  within  the 
bounds  of  reason. 

Readers  are  sensitive,  too,  on  the  subject 
of  race.  We  have  a  saying  in  the  office  that 
the  only  safe  villain  is  an  atheist  American. 
Since  1917  atheist  Germans  can  be  used;  in 
fact,  they  are  being  used  until  the  monotony 
of  it  is  wearing.  A  Swede  as  villain  is  taken 
by  some  as  sure  sign  of  malignant  persecution 
of  the  Swedes,  an  English  hero  proves  anti- 
Irish  propaganda,  of  late  even  Mexicans  and 
Spaniards  begin  to  protest  against  a  fellow 
countryman's  being  used  as  villain,  thus  rob- 
bing authors  of  a  time-honored  resource. 

Even  local  pride  rallies  to  the  attack  if  fic- 
tion happens  to  paint  its  locality  in  unpleas- 
ing  colors. 

Write  your  story  according  to  its  just  de- 
mands, but  avoid  needlessly  trampling  upon 
the  toes  of  any  of  your  readers.     Sore  toes 


PLEASING  THE   READER  145 

are  not  conducive  to  the  imposition  of  suc- 
cessful illusions.      ^ 

Positive  vs.  Negative  Plots. — ^Lack  of  con- 
sideration of  this  fundamental  question  leads 
many  writers  into  losing,  unconsciously  and 
often  needlessly,  one  strong,  elemental  hold 
upon  the  sympathies  of  their  readers. 

Human  beings  like  a  hero  better  than  a 
villain.  They  enjoy  success  more  than  fail- 
ure, construction  better  than  destruction. 
Consequently  they  derive  more  pleasure  from 
following  to  success  the  fortunes  of  a  hero, 
with  whom  they  sympathize  or  identify 
themselves,  than  from  following  to  failure 
the  fortunes  of  a  villain,  who  stands  alwaj^s 
for  the  opposition.  Both  appeals  are  strong, 
but  the  point  is  that  the  first  is  essentially  the 
stronger. 

Analj^ze  a  little  further  the  reader's  reac- 
tions to  a  negative  plot.  The  villain  is  the 
central  character,  the  course  of  whose  for- 
tunes forms  the  thread  of  the  story.  The 
reader,  of  course,  knows  this  from  the  start. 
He  knows,  too,  from  experience  with  fiction, 
that  this  villain  is  almost  surely  doomed  to 
failure  and  possibly  death  and  that  the  in- 
terest of  the  story  lies  in  watching  him  be 


146        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

hunted  down,  defeat  his  own  ends  or  get 
caught  in  a  net.  A  strong  interest,  assuredly, 
but  inherently  second  in  strength  and  lure 
to  that  of  a  positive  plot.  In  the  first  place, 
the  reader  knows  that  he  is  going  to  a  funeral, 
real  or  metaphorical.  Some  people  like  that 
above  all  other  things,  but  most  do  not. 
Vengeance  is  strong  in  appeal,  but  at  best 
vengeance  is  only  an  attempted  and  inade- 
quate compensation  for  loss  of  success  or 
perfection.  Second,  the  reader  can  give  only 
divided  interest  and  allegiance.  He  generally 
prefers  that  right  should  triumph,  so  he  ar- 
rays his  sympathies  against  the  villain,  but 
fiction  experience  has  firmly  fixed  in  him 
the  habit  of  arraying  himself  with  the  cen- 
tral character,  in  this  case  the  villain.  The 
usual  result  is  that  his  interest  has  to  strad- 
dle—  divide;  he  is  at  war  with  himself 
throughout  the  story.  If  the  villain  succeeds, 
the  reader's  moral  sense  is  hurt.  If  the  vil- 
lain fails,  the  reader's  primal  sympathy  with 
the  central  character  of  a  narrative  is  hurt. 
He  can't  have  an  unrestrained  good  time  no 
matter  what  happens.  And  his  fundamental 
purpose  in  reading  fiction  is  to  have  a  good 
time. 


PLEASING   THE   READER  147 

Fiction  with  only  positive  plots  would  be 
monotonous  and  the  negative  plot  gives  a 
needed  relief,  but  when  you  turn  to  it  remem- 
ber you  are  under  the  handicap  of  a  weak- 
ened hold  upon  your  readers. 

Restraint  at  the  Wrong  Time. — Have  you 
ever  considered  how  often  the  reader  is 
robbed  of  his  vicarious  enjoyment  by  being 
hurried  on  when  he'd  really  like  to  stop  and 
revel  or  gloat?  For  example,  take  the  vil- 
lain. After  a  career  of  hellish  atrocities  and 
maddening  injuries  to  others,  often  causing 
years  of  suffering,  he  is  paid  back  during  the 
few  seconds  required  to  make  a  quick  neat 
bullet-hole  through  his  forehead  or  to  plunge 
him  over  a  cliff.  I  confess  myself  un-Chris- 
tain  enough  to  long  for  a  more  proportionate 
punishment.  So  do  all  other  readers  I  have 
questioned. 

Take  the  lost-treasure  story  for  another 
bald,  extreme  example.  After  pursuing  the 
treasure  through  a  whole  story  of  obstacles 
and  strain  you  finally  get  it.  The  author  tells 
you  you  have  it  and  promptly  drops  the  cur- 
tain. You  don't  get  a  chance  to  run  the 
doubloons  through  your  fingers,  to  finger  the 
jewels,  to  sit  on  the  bar  silver,  to  review  hap- 


148        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

pily  all  the  pleasant  things  you  can  do  with 
it.  Yet  if  you  really  found  a  treasure,  in 
those  first  moments  of  final  attainment  all 
the  long  struggle  for  it  might  become  as  noth- 
ing and,  in  looking  back,  these  might  be  the 
moments  most  vivid  and  colorful.  Generally 
when  story  people  find  the  treasure  tliey 
don't  seem  to  care  a  hang.  In  real  life  there 
would  be  drunkenness  or  delirium  of  joy. 
Edwin  Lefevre  first  called  my  attention  to 
this  cruelty  by  authors,  vowing  to  write  a 
treasure  story  in  which  the  reader  would 
have  a  real  chance  to  gloat.  If  he  does  so,  I've 
an  idea  most  of  us  will  get  particular  enjoy- 
ment therefrom. 

And  the  love-story.  The  monotony  of 
what  is  technically  and  vulgarlj'^  known  as 
"the  clinch  at  the  end"  is  sound  reason  for 
not  always  carrying  the  reader  quite  that  far 
along  the  path  of  true  love,  and  yet,  in  spite 
of  all  our  sophistication,  don't  most  of  us 
down  in  our  hearts  enjoy  that  satisfying  cul- 
mination of  the  events  we've  been  following 
with  so  much  interest?  Wasn't  it  what  we 
wished  to  happen?  Why,  then,  should  we 
enjoy  leaving  before  it  does  happen,  carry- 
ing witli  us  only  a  hint  or  an  inference  that 


PLEASING  THE   READER  149 

it  would  happen  at  all?  To  be  sure,  we  can 
imagine  the  scene  to  suit  each  his  own  par- 
ticular fancy  instead  of  having  to  accept  the 
author's,  and,  however  individual  the  story 
may  have  been,  the  "clinch"  is  comparatively 
a  standardized  performance  with  fewer  en- 
ticements of  novelty,  and  yet — most  human 
beings  are  human  beings. 

The  above  are  crude  illustrations,  but  they 
illustrate  an  important  principle  in  the  busi- 
ness of  pleasing  a  reader.  The  usual  failure 
to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  is  only 
another  one  of  the  thousand  losses  of  ad- 
vantage resulting  from  not  training  writers 
to  habitual  weighing  of  the  reader's  reac- 
tions, particularly  his  elemental  reactions. 
Proportionate  space  and  emphasis  in  a  story 
must  be  determined  primarily  by  relation  to 
plot,  but  the  object  of  plot  is  interest  and  if 
you  can,  without  much  or  any  loss  in  general 
proportion,  give  the  reader  somewhat  more 
play  at  this  or  that  point  for  the  natural  reac- 
tions he  wishes  to  exercise,  why  not  pleasure 
him  instead  of  suppressing  him? 

It  is  not  a  question  of  pleasant  versus  un- 
pleasant reactions,  but  of  whatever  the 
reader  happens  to  feel.    It  may  be  horror  or 


150        FUNDAMENTALS    OF   FICTION    WRITING 

some  other  unhappy  emotion  for  which  he 
desires  more  time  and  space.  The  important 
thing  is  to  give  him  what  he  desires. 

Talking  Down  to  the  Reader. — Naturally 
no  reader  likes  it  and  illusion  suffers  in  con- 
sequence. Don't  be  a  schoolmaster  or  an 
encyclopedia  to  him.  If  it's  necessary  to  give 
him  information,  weave  it  gently  and  unob- 
trusively into  the  story.  Don't  tell  him  things 
he  is  almost  sure  to  know  already.  Treat 
him  as  an  equal;  don't  speak  down  to  him 
from  a  superior  height.  It  seems  bad  taste, 
as  w^ell  as  a  loss  in  effectiveness,  to  ask  a 
reader's  interest  in  your  characters  and  then 
sneer  at  them  yourself.  If  you  are  asking 
him  to  join  you  in  the  sneering,  he  may  pre- 
fer a  more  kindly  and  courteous  attitude  and 
be  irritated  at  you  and  your  invitation. 

General  Irritations  and  a  General  Recipe. 
— Most  of  the  points  covered  in  the  last  five 
chapters  have  general  application  to  the 
reader's  likes  and  dislikes. 

Note  this: 

On  most  points  bearing  on  the  writing  of 
fiction,  a  well-thought-out  violation  of  the 
general  rule  or  custom  can  often  increase  ef- 
fectiveness.     Old    methods    and    formulas, 


PLEASING   THE    READER  151 

however  sound  as  a  general  rule,  lose  in  ef- 
fect through  endless  repetition.  They  have 
become  usual,  have  worn  down  their  original 
hold,  the  reader  knows  what  to  expect.  Give 
him  something  different  and  he  is  grateful. 
Merely  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  such  oppor- 
tunities is  good  for  you  in  that  it  keeps  j'^ou 
from  falling  into  the  hopeless  rut  of  routine 
and  slavery  to  rules. 

First-Person  Narratives. — Do  readers  pre- 
fer them?  I  think  nobody  knows — nor  will 
know  until  somebody  takes  a  national  census 
on  the  point.  Why  not  decide  tlie  question 
solely  according  to  the  demands  of  the  par- 
ticular story  and  your  own  bent  of  ability, 
since  readers  are  divided  on  the  point? 
Some  are  irritated  by  too  much  "I"  and  by  a 
point  of  view  limited  strictly  to  one  angle; 
others  like  the  unity  and  sharp  definiteness 
of  such  a  point  of  view  and  freedom  from  the 
author's  God-like  ability  to  know  so  much 
of  what  goes  on  in  the  minds  of  all  the  char- 
acters. 

Fooling  the  Reader. — Making  a  fool  of  a 
person  is  not  likely  to  win  his  sympathy. 
There  is  a  world  of  difference  between  legiti- 
mate   surprise    and    deliberately    making    a 


152        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

reader  create  and  live  in  an  illusion  and  then 
showing  him  he's  a  fool  for  having  trusted 
you  to  guide  him  aright.  The  story  that,  at 
the  verj"^  end,  proves  to  have  been  all  a  dream 
(which  the  author  led  the  reader  into  believ- 
ing a  reality)  is  an  example  of  this  kind  of 
vaudeville  horseplay. 

Two  Setting  Appeals. — Some  readers  get 
the  greater  enjoyment  from  settings  and  ma- 
terial with  which  they  are  familiar,  others 
from  those  as  far  removed  as  possible  from 
their  daily  life.  In  the  first  case  the  appeal 
is  probably  that  of  realism  mixed  with  the 
joys  of  self-conceit  and  pride  of  knowledge, 
in  the  second,  probably  of  novelty  and  of 
the  freedom  from  the  imagination-fettering, 
homely,  routine  details  that  is  so  characteris- 
tic of  most  classic  and  some  modern  tragedy. 
Here  again  there  is  no  comprehensive  labora- 
tory knowledge,  and  the  reader's  reaction 
should  not  be  made  the  deciding  factor  when 
there  is  any  doubt  as  to  the  author's  com- 
parative ability  or  the  demands  of  the  par- 
ticular story  itself. 

In  the  case  of  the  "costume"  or  "doublet 
and  hose"  story,  as  in  some  other  kinds  of 
unfamiliar  setting,  there  is  also  the  appeal 
of  pageantry. 


PLEASING  THE   READER  153 

Temporary  factors  play  their  part  in  influ- 
encing readers'  reactions.  When  the  tide  of 
war  fiction  began  to  ebb  there  was  a  notice- 
able reader  reaction  toward  anything  that 
would  take  one's  thoughts  away  from  the 
Great  War.  The  magazines  suddenly  shut 
their  doors  against  stories  of  the  war,  but  the 
mere  absence  of  these  was  not  enough:  there 
arose  a  noticeable  demand  for  fiction  that 
would  carry  one  clear  out  of  these  modern 
times  into  past  eras  of  greater  simplicity  and 
less  wholesale  horror.  War  itself  was  not 
tabooed,  but  it  must  be  war  of  tlie  old-fash- 
ioned kind. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PLOT  AND  STRUCTURE 

Throughout  all  nature,  throughout  the 
universe  so  far  as  we  know  it,  there  is  a  basic 
tendency  toward  unity  and  growth.  The 
tendency  is  of  course  present  in  the  human 
mind.  That  is  why  the  human  mind  demands 
plot  and  structure  in  fiction.  In  nature's  high- 
er manifestations  of  plant  and  animal  the  de- 
mand for  unity  progresses  into  a  demand  for 
organic  structure,  an  assemblage  of  parts 
whose  respective  offices  and  limitations  are 
determined  by  their  relation  to  the  whole  and 
which  therefore,  in  addition  to  their  intrinsic 
value,  assume  a  relative  value  that  outranks 
the  intrinsic.  Add  to  the  tendencies  of  unity 
and  growth  a  tendency  toward  limit  of 
growth,  or  perfection.  Fiction  plot  is  the  re- 
sult of  these  three  universal  demands,  and 
bearing  them  in  mind  is  a  sound  foundation 
from  which  to  consider  all  problems  in  con- 
nection with  plot. 

154 


PLOT   AND   STRUCTURE  155 

A  similar  process  of  reasoning  from  ele- 
mental beginnings  would,  if  relentlessly 
applied  to  the  laws,  traditions  and  supersti- 
tions of  art,  do  more  than  anything  else  to 
free  it  from  chaff,  artificialities  and  miscon- 
ceptions that  have  attached  themselves  to  it. 

There  is  even  advantage  in  considering 
examples  from  nature  for  the  sake  of  clearer 
understanding  of  the  nature  and  require- 
ments of  plot.  You  already  know  what  plot 
is,  but  see  whether  comparison  with  the  fol- 
lowing will  not  crystallize  your  concept  of  it 
to  a  degree  that  will  make  you  largely  inde- 
pendent of  rules  and  regulations: 

A  river-system,  a  river  and  its  network  of 
tributaries,  is  like  a  plot.  A  unity  with 
growth  in  a  single  general  direction  with  its 
mouth  as  climax  or  limit  of  growth;  many 
elements  combining  smoothly  and  perfectly 
into  one. 

The  tap-root  and  subsidiary  roots  of  many 
plants  furnish  a  similar  illustration.  A  tree's 
framework  is  an  inverted  example. 

A  rope  of  vines  or,  more  clearly,  a  man- 
made  piece  of  rope  in  the  process  of  making 
with  the  loose  strands  gathered  at  one  end 
into  a  closely  knit  main  line. 


156        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

A  snow-slide  forced  by  the  terrain  to  con- 
verge all  its  material  into  a  narrow  gap  at  the 
foot  of  the  slope. 

It  would  be,  I  think,  a  pity  if  all  trees  and 
all  river-systems  were  made  in  strict  accord- 
ance with  one  pattern,  as  the  rules  so  largely 
demand  of  plot-building.  Yet  either  tree  or 
river-system  would  be  no  longer  such — and 
a  sad  spectacle  indeed — if  it  were  cut  into  bits, 
were  large  where  it  should  be  small  or  were 
otherwise  changed  from  its  essential  nature. 

Structure. — It  has  been  said  that  the  short 
story  is  far  more  exacting  than  the  novel  in 
demand  for  strict  unification  and  rigid  en- 
forcement of  relative  values.  That  is  true  in 
practise  and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  isn't  true 
in  theory.  Perhaps  the  novel  escapes  through 
mere  laziness  or  inability  of  writer  and 
reader  to  create  and  receive  so  large  a  unit 
perfectly  constructed  in  all  its  many  details. 
Perhaps,  on  the  other  hand,  the  novel  is  a 
more  natural  expression  by  the  writer  and  a 
more  natural  and  desired  form  for  the 
reader.  Perhaps,  if  we  draw  the  distinction 
between  novel  and  romance,  only  the  latter 
should  be  held  to  the  strict  requirements  of 
short-story  structure. 


PLOT  AND   STRUCTURB  157 

To  take  the  form  of  strictest  requirements, 
I  have  found  only  one  rule  that  seems  in 
practise  to  produce  satisfactory  results: 

The  short  story  has  one  main  point  and 
only  one.  It  may  be  the  climax  of  a  course  of 
events,  an  aspect  of  life,  a  psychological  im- 
passe, what  you  will.  But  there  must  be  only 
one  of  it.  Every  other  element  in  the  story, 
every  scrap  of  material,  every  bit  of  color, 
every  human  trait,  everything  in  the  story, 
must  be  subsidiary  to  the  main  point.  No 
elements  are  even  admitted  to  the  story  un- 
less they  serve  in  developing  the  main  point. 
When  admitted  they  get  space  and  emphasis 
only  in  proportion  to  that  service.  No  one 
of  them  is  valuable  in  itself;  their  values  are 
wholly  relative,  not  intrinsic.  (Of  course, 
there  is  no  reason  for  not  abandoning  this 
principle  on  occasion  if  you  are  sure  you  can 
better  satisfy  your  readers  by  so  doing.) 

Violations  of  Unity.  —  Compelling  your 
reader  to  follow  alternately  two  sets  of  char- 
acters in  two  sets  of  scenes  is  dangerous,  since 
it  violates  unity  unless  the  reader  is  kept 
keenly  conscious  of  their  inevitable  conver- 
gence upon  one  point.  Hopping  back  and 
forth  in  the  time  of  the  action  is  in  most 


l58        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

cases  fatal  to  unity.  Shifting  the  point  of  view 
is  objected  to  on  grounds  of  violated  unity — 
telling  your  story  first  from  the  angle  from 
which  events  are  seen  by  one  character,  then 
from  the  angle  of  another  character  or  from 
that  of  the  author. 

Do  not  leave  loose  strands  dangling  along 
your  rope,  like  a  minor  character  who  van- 
ishes without  needed  explanation,  or  a  line  of 
endeavor  suddenly  abandoned  without  a 
word. 

Too  many  characters  are  not  only  an  ob- 
stacle to  clearness  but  greatly  increase  the 
difficulty  of  unification. 

Do  not  attempt  to  include  too  much  ma- 
terial, color,  life-history  or  anything  else. 
If  your  stoiy  refuses  to  unify  satisfactorily 
it  may  be  because  you  are  using  more  ele- 
ments than  you  are  able  to  handle.  Even 
if  you  can  handle  all  you  have,  be  sure  that 
the  expanse  of  your  canvass  is  not  greater 
than  the  reader  can  look  at  conveniently  and 
without  missing  some  of  it.  In  a  general  way 
it  is  well  to  tuck  it  in  at  the  edges,  so  to  speak, 
and  enclose  it  in  a  fairly  definite  picture- 
frame. 

Holding  Reader  to  Correct  Plot  Line. — It  is 


PLOT   AND   STRUCTURE  159 

not  sufficient  to  select  and  assemble  the 
proper  elements  according  to  their  relative 
values.  The  assignment  of  proper  relative 
space  and  emphasis  must  be  managed  with 
such  nicety  that  the  reader  can  not  mistake 
their  common  direction.  He  may  be  kept 
from  knowledge  of  the  goal,  but  he  must 
know  and  feel  that  everything  in  the  story, 
carrj'ing  him  along  with  it,  is  sweeping  along 
in  one  single  general  direction.  If  he  is  on  a 
tributary  flowing  southwest  he  must  know 
that  it  is  a  tributary,  not  the  main  stream,  that 
it  flows  southwest  and  that  the  main  stream, 
while  it  may  flow  southwest,  south  or  south- 
east, will  hardly  flow  north. 

A  reader  tends  to  anticipate,  to  cast  ahead. 
Make  sure  that,  while  you  hold  from  him  suf- 
ficient to  make  any  desired  surprise  effective, 
he  does  not  waste  his  attention-strength  by 
casting  ahead  over  false  trails  leading  away 
from  your  general  direction.  In  other  words, 
keep  him  in  hand  from  start  to  finish,  being 
sure  his  feet  follow  your  path  in  your  direc- 
tion. 

To  instill  a  sense  of  plot,  one  must  either 
go  into  endless  rules,  exceptions,  diagrams 
and  analyses  or  else  present  only  the  funda- 


160        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

mentals  and  commoner  guide-posts,  leaving 
the  writer  to  develop  his  own  ability.  There 
has  been  too  much  of  the  former  method  and 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  add  further  initiative- 
killing  rules,  particularly  as  I  believe  that  the 
majority  of  fiction  rules  can  often  be  violated 
with  good  results. 

Non-Conformist  Plot  and  Structure. — No 
rule  for  fiction  has  a  sound  basis  unless  it  is 
grounded  on  some  such  elemental  in  human 
nature  as  an  instinctive  desire  for  growth, 
unity,  completeness,  a  rounded-out  whole, 
symmetry,  rhythm,  contrast,  and  so  forth. 
But  even  an  elemental  desire  can  be  led  to 
the  point  of  temporary  satiety,  even  contrast 
itself.  Monotony  is  undoubtedly  monoton- 
ous. 

Consider  the  reader.  Fed  year  after  year 
with  the  results  of  the  same  rules,  with  the 
same  literary  devices,  the  same  general  plots 
and  endings,  the  same  signs  along  the  way, 
isn't  liis  appetite  for  standard  food  sure  to  be 
dulled  at  intervals?  He  is  far  wiser  and 
more  sophisticated  in  fiction  than  you  proba- 
bly think;  if  he  goes  right  on  eating  standard 
food  it  is  often  because  he  finds  a  scarcity  of 
other  kinds.    Why  not  study  the  condition  of 


PLOT  AND   STRUCTURE  161 

his  appetite,  estimating  from  how  much  of 
certain  kinds  of  food  he  has  had  to  eat  and 
for  how  long,  and  then  make  a  business  of 
feeding  him  a  new  kind  until  he  tires  of  it 
in  turn?  A  most  unliterary  suggestion?  Per- 
haps, but  I  should  not  wholly  relish  tlie  task 
of  proving  it  such. 

There  are,  at  least,  certain  fashions  in  fic- 
tion and  even  in  "literature"  that  change  and 
change  back  with  the  years.  The  costume 
story  reigns,  sinks  into  oblivion,  reigns  again. 
The  author  chats  himself  into  his  stories, 
keeps  out  of  them,  enters  once  more  to  chat 
again.  Romance  and  realism  alternate  in 
favor.  The  critics  permit  it,  though  sneering 
perhaps  at  each  change,  just  as  they  are  in- 
clined to  sneer  at  both  change  and  perma- 
nence themselves. 

Why  not  other  changes?  For  example, 
more  changes  from  the  rules  of  plot?  Many 
fairly  radical  changes,  indeed,  could  be  made 
without  violation  of  the  really  fundamental 
rules. 

Here  is  the  story  of  an  interesting  labora- 
tory experiment  on  the  reactions  of  readers. 
During  the  war  our  managing  editor  was 
stationed  in  one  of  the  largest  officers'  train- 


162        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

ing  camps.  He  made  a  business  of  watching 
the  reactions  of  his  comrades  to  magazine 
fiction  and  of  course  to  our  own  magazine  in 
particular.  It  happened  that  an  author  asked 
me  to  decide  a  question  for  him.  He  was 
writing  a  novelette  around  an  historical 
character  and  found  himself  on  the  horns  of 
a  dilemma.  Either  he  must  do  extreme  vio- 
lence to  the  facts  of  that  famous  person's  life, 
particularly  as  to  sequence  of  events,  or  else 
abandon  any  attempt  at  a  real  fiction  plot. 
I  suggested  that  he  abandon  the  attempt  at 
plot  and  structure  and  make  the  story  prac- 
tically a  mere  running  narrative. 

In  the  training  camp  the  results  of  that  ex- 
periment were  startling  and  very  suggestive. 
Among  all  the  stories  in  books  and  magazines 
that  structureless  novelette  reported  by  far 
the  most  comment  and  praise.  The  most 
valuable  point  was  that  the  readers  were 
sufficiently  analytical  to  know,  and  state, 
exactly  why  they  liked  it:  "Different  from 
other  stories."  "Couldn't  tell  what  was  going 
to  happen."  "Couldn't  predict  the  end  after 
reading  a  third  of  the  way."    "Like  real  life." 

Many  of  them  had  read  numerous  other 
stories  by  the  same  author,  Hugh  Pen  dexter. 


PLOT   AND   STRUCTURE  163 

dealing  with  similar  material  and  times,  but 
all  these  stories  had  conformed  to  the  laws 
of  plot  and  structure.  Practically  none  of  the 
readers  was  sufficiently  familiar  with  the 
historical  character's  life  to  know  the  ma- 
terial in  advance. 

Another  laboratory  experiment.  One  day 
in  the  office  some  one  suggested  we  hadn't 
had  a  "desert  island"  story  for  a  long  while 
and  ought  to  get  one.  All  agreed,  but  of 
course  with  no  enthusiasm;  all  of  us  could 
tell  that  story  in  its  essentials  before  it  was 
even  written.  Then  some  one  wished  they'd 
write  "desert  island'*  stories  that  were  dif- 
ferent. All  seven  of  us  fell  to  outlining  the 
kind  we'd  like  personally.  All  seven  agreed. 
All  wanted  the  usual  "props"  left  out  and 
all  wanted  the  castaways  to  have  a  real  and 
a  realistic  struggle  for  existence — "no  self- 
sacrificing  fish,"  as  one  put  it.  There  were 
to  be  no  practical  specialists  like  engineers, 
sailors,  carpenters  and  botanists  in  the  party. 
Just  every-day  people  like  ourselves. 

Then  we  figured  that,  if  this  was  the  kind 
of  story  all  of  us  craved,  there  were  probably 
many  readers,  just  as  sophisticated  or  "fed 
up"  as  we,  who  also  would  welcome  this  de- 


164        FUNDAMENTALS   OF    FICTION    WRITING 

parture.  We  presented  the  problem  to  J. 
Allan  Dunn,  asking  whether  he  cared  to 
write  a  "desert  island"  novelette  without  any 
of  the  usual  material  therefor,  no  savages, 
volcanoes,  women,  cocoanuts,  socialism,  rival 
party,  tropical  vegetation,  fierce  beasts,  ani- 
mals waiting  for  domestication,  no  specialists 
in  the  party,  no  supplies  to  draw  from,  noth- 
ing, not  even  a  pen-knife  or  watch-crystal. 
Each  of  us  wrote  out  a  list  of  the  things  he 
knew  or  could  do  that  might  be  useful  in  the 
circumstances — unspecialized  and,  mostly, 
meager  lists. 

He  accepted,  after  justified  hesitation. 
We  modified  our  terms  to  permit  him  wild 
dogs  and  wild  boars  for  excitement,  meat 
and  leather,  but  it  was  understood  that  ac- 
tion, interest  and  whatever  plot  proved  pos- 
sible were  to  be  drawn  from  the  barehanded 
struggle  with  nature  for  existence. 

The  conditions  and  circumstances  were 
given  to  our  readers  along  with  the  published 
story.  It  won  a  stronger  response  from  them 
than  had  any  other  story  we'd  published  for 
several  years.  This  from  the  audience  of  a 
magazine  devoted  primarily  to  action  stories 
of  which  the  usual  "desert  island"  story  is  a 


PLOT   AND   STRUCTURE  165 

fairly  representative  type,  though  it  must  be 
admitted  that  this  audience  has  been  re- 
cruited from  among  those  who  prefer  more 
nourishing  meat  along  witli  the  action,  insist 
upon  a  sound  basis  of  fact  or  probability  and 
are  too  sophisticated  not  to  have  tired  of  the 
usual  hack  melodrama. 

These  two  experiments  are  at  least  sug- 
gestive. You  can  doubtless  recall  from  your 
own  experience  stories  that  registered 
strongly  on  you  because  of  variance  from  the 
usual  types.  Generally,  if  the  story  succeeds, 
the  variance  is  attributed  to  genius  or  unus- 
ual gifts;  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  in  most  cases 
due  either  to  accident  or  to  a  mere  common- 
sense  study  of  readers  and  what  can  be  ex- 
pected to  have  dulled  their  appetites. 

Ending  a  Story. — Variance  from  type  in 
the  ending  is  of  particular  value.  It  must,  of 
course,  be  an  ending  logically  belonging  to 
the  story,  but  surprise,  or  at  least  change,  is 
entirely  possible. 

Yet  is  there  any  escape  from  the  "happy 
ever  after"  ending  of  a  love-story?  I  suppose 
and  hope  so,  but  have  my  doubts  except  as 
to  the  rarest  instances.  A  love-story  without 
at  least  the  suggestion  of  marriage  or  its  sub- 


166        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

stitute  as  ending  seems  considered  almost  as 
desolate  as  a  love-story  without  either  love 
or  story.  Renunciation  is  a  reversal  of 
"happy  ever  after"  rather  than  a  variation, 
and  not  generally  popular.  Death  is  very 
grudgingly  accepted  as  a  substitute.  I've 
made  earnest  effort  to  secure  variants — 
parties  decide  to  be  friends  instead,  one  party 
proves  to  love  a  third  party  or  grows  weary 
of  the  second,  parties  quarrel  and  omit  mak- 
ing up,  death  of  either  or  of  all  hands,  any- 
thing for  a  change.  No  results  except  a 
death-rate  well  under  one  per  cent. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  writers  believe  edi- 
tors will  not  accept  variants  from  the  "happy 
ever  after."  I  suspect  their  belief  is  well 
founded,  but  I  wonder  whether  in  this  case 
the  editorial  attitude  is  not  solidly  based  on 
a  downright  insistence  from  human-being 
readers. 

Unhappy  endings?  The  minority  like 
them,  the  majority  do  not.  I  can  venture 
nothing  more  except  that  the  size  of  the  mi- 
nority increases  if  the  line  is  drawn  not  be- 
tween "unhappy"  and  "happy"  but  between 
endings  that  leave  the  reader  depressed  and 
those  that  leave  him  uplifted.     Through  the 


PLOT   AND   STRUCTURE  167 

latter,  with  their  appeal  of  pathos  or  high 
tragedy,  there  is  decided  opportunity  for 
comparative  variation  from  the  usual. 

At  the  end  of  a  story  I  think  most  readers 
rather  resent  loose  strands  of  plot  left  untied, 
like  minor  characters  of  whose  future  no 
glimpse  is  afforded  or  some  minor  enterprise 
that  has  run  through  the  plot  only  to  have  its 
fate  a  mystery  at  the  end.  Skill,  particularly 
in  unifying  severely  to  the  central  point,  can 
make  the  reader  forget  the  disappearance  of 
minor  strands  at  the  very  end,  hut  it  is  w^ell 
to  remember  that  most  readers  have  a 
healthy  sense  of  legitimate  curiosity. 

Beginning  a  Story. — At  the  first  word  of 
your  story  the  reader  knows  nothing  con- 
cerning it  except  what  title,  illustrations  and 
contents-page  may  have  told  him.  Generally 
he  doesn't  know  whether  it  is  laid  in  Africa, 
Alaska  or  New  York  City,  or  whether  it  is 
of  to-day,  1890  or  1700.  The  more  quickly 
you  tell  him,  the  more  quickly  can  you  draw 
him  into  your  illusion.  If  you  wait,  you 
almost  certainly  confuse  and  irritate  him. 
Story  after  story  comes  in  to  editors  that 
leaves  the  reader  groping  and  unable  to  settle 
down  until  long  after  it  is  under  way;  often 


168        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

he  doesn't  learn  where  he  is  until  he  has 
wandered  through  several  pages.  Even  a 
paragraph  is  too  long  a  wait — and  waste. 
You  need  not  make  a  business  of  placarding 
date  and  place,  but  there  are  a  myriad  ways 
of  introducing  him  quickly  to  both.  Failure 
to  do  this  is  so  common  and  so  extremely  in- 
jurious to  the  stoiy's  effectiveness  that  it  af- 
fords a  most  striking  example  of  the  disas- 
trous effects  of  giving  more  attention  to  rules 
than  to  common  sense  and  of  not  drilling  into 
the  very  bones  of  writers  the  necessity  of 
watching  and  measuring  their  stories  con- 
stantly from  the  point  of  view  of  readers. 

Another  common  and  bad  mistake  is  to 
present  any  but  a  main  character  first,  prefer- 
ably the  main  character.  Indeed,  in  the 
short  story  perfect  unification  almost  de- 
mands that  he  be  first  on  the  stage.  But 
there  is  a  common-sense  reason  aside  from 
that  of  unity  and  centralization.  Long  ex- 
perience with  fiction  has  taught  readers  that 
the  first  character  to  appear  is  nearly  always 
the  main  character,  therefore  whatever  char- 
acter gets  tlie  initial  spot-light  is  promptly 
seized  upon  by  them  as  tlie  main  one.  If 
he  isn't,  they  have  to  let  go  of  the  story  illu- 
sion   they    are    already   building    and    start 


PLOT  AND   STRUCTURE  169 

I 

building  a  new  one  around  a  new  center  and 
feel  rather  foolish  or  cheated  and  irritated. 
As  in  the  case  of  not  setting  time  and  scene, 
the  writer  has  failed  to  hold  them  to  the  cor- 
rect plot  line — even  to  start  them  on  it.  Of 
what  avail  is  knowledge  of  technique,  or  the 
present  method  of  teaching  technique,  if  it 
fails  to  impress  such  horse-sense  points  as 
these?  Sufficient  skill  can  introduce  the 
central  character  when  and  how  it  pleases, 
but  most  writers  lack  it. 

In  the  case  of  the  drama  there  is  no  harm 
in  minor  characters  appearing  first.  Stage 
custom  has  established  this,  not  the  other,  as 
the  custom.  Also,  the  stage,  being  better  able 
to  study  its  patrons  at  first-hand,  has  realized 
the  catastrophe  of  letting  them  stray  from  the 
correct  plot  line  and  guards  against  it  by  giv- 
ing out  programs  in  advance  as  keys  to  caste 
(with  characters  listed  in  order  of  appear- 
ance), scene,  time  and  sometimes  even  more; 
the  rise  of  the  curtain  instantly  gives  the  au- 
dience its  bearings  in  a  general  way,  and 
star,  scene,  time  and  even  plot  are  frequently 
known  before  entering  the  theater.  Writers 
of  fiction  could  profit  tremendously  by  care- 
ful study  of  the  necessarily  practical  tech- 
nique— or  common  sense — of  the  theater. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CHARACTER 

For  broadest  popularity  possibly  the  prime 
single  requisite  in  fiction  is  action  plot,  but, 
if  so,  character  drawing  is  at  least  a  close 
second.  Human  nature's  interest  in  human 
nature  is  undying  and  intense.  By  the  tests 
of  the  somewhat  indefinite  thing  we  call  lit- 
erature, character  probably  ranks  first.  Ac- 
tion, on  the  other  hand,  seems  the  more 
primitive  and  the  more  fundamental;  early 
man  undoubtedly  acted  first  and  thought 
later;  when  he  learned  to  analyze  his  fellows 
it  was  for  purposes  of  action. 

An  Experiment. — It  is  interesting  to  look 
back  over  the  centuries  and  consider  the 
stories  that  have  had  sufficient  hold  to  en- 
dure. Which  do  you  remember  first  and  the 
most  distinctly,  "Sherlock  Holmes,"  "Mul- 
vaney,"  "Richard  Feveril,"  "Amyas  Leigh," 
"John     Silver,"      "Becky      Sharpe,"      "Old 

170 


CHARACTER  171 

Scrooge,"  "Quasimodo,"  "Don  Quixote," 
"Falstaff,"  "Hamlet,"  * '  L  a  d  y  Macbeth," 
"Faust,"  etc.,  or  the  plots  and  action  in  which 
they  were  concerned?  "Arthur,"  "Tristan," 
"Roland,"  "Siegfried,"  "Finn  McCool,"  etc., 
or  their  adventures?  "Aeneas,"  "Hector," 
"Ulysses,"  etc.,  or  what  they  did? 

I  have  made  no  laboratory  tests  on  other 
people,  so  can  risk  no  conclusions  from  this 
test  beyond  venturing  that,  as  the  race  grew 
older  and  its  literature  developed,  character 
interest  tended  to  take  first  place  over  the 
more  primitive  action  appeal.  Make  your 
own  tests,  allowing  for  the  differences  be- 
tween stories  of  the  last  few  centuries  and 
those  of  long  ago.  After  trying  out  yourself, 
try  out  as  many  other  people  as  you  can.  If 
you  do,  you'll  get  valuable  knowledge — and 
understanding — not  likely  to  be  found  in 
books. 

You'll  get  not  only  some  useful  funda- 
mental ideas  on  the  values  and  relative 
values  of  plot  and  character,  but  possibly,  by 
contrast  with  others,  a  sound  idea  as  to 
whether  j'our  real  bent  is  for  plot  or  for 
character,  and,  best  of  all,  you  will  have  done 
something  toward  forming  or  strengthening 


172        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

the  laboratory  habit  of  examining  facts  in- 
stead of  swallowing  at  theories,  and  the  habit 
of  thinking  for  yourself  instead  of  using  the 
weakening  crutch  of  accepting  other  people's 
theories  that  they  in  turn  probably  accepted 
from  other  people  ad  infinitum. 

In  any  case  character  drawing — human 
nature — is  one  of  the  two  most  important  ele- 
ments in  fiction.  Yet  the  lack  of  it  marks 
the  majority  of  submitted  manuscripts.  In 
many  of  these  cases  it  is  an  utter,  total,  com- 
plete, absolute  lack,  unless  you  count  the 
crude  class  distinction  between  hero  and  vil- 
lain. Characters  are  merely  proper  names, 
lucky  if  there  is  even  an  individualized  or 
slightl}^  individualized  physical  body  to  cling 
to,  and  twice  lucky  if  said  body  has  clothes 
or  habits  of  its  own.  You  can  lift  them  out 
of  one  story  and  substitute  them  in  another 
with  no  damage  to  them  or  to  either  story 
and  with  decided  profit  in  the  case  of  the 
first.     It  is  pitiful — and  maddening. 

The  tragedy  of  it  is  that  it  can  easily  be 
remedied  by  any  writer  of  average  human 
intelligence.  All  he  needs  for  comparatively 
decent  characterization  is  a  certain  very 
simple  recipe. 


CHARACTER  173 

A  Recipe. — I  don't  know  whose  recipe  it  is, 
having  heard  it  years  ago  and  forgotten  his 
name,  though  I  think  its  accredited  fatiicr 
dates  back  a  century  or  so,  but  he  should  be 
crowned  in  honor  and  the  use  of  his  recipe 
made  compulsory  by  law.  Apparently  not 
one  writer  in  ten  thousand  ever  even  heard 
of  it. 

You  can  dig  out  that  recipe  for  yourself 
by  the  laboratory  method  advocated  above, 
if  you  will  trace  English  literature  back  to- 
ward its  beginnings.  And  if  I  give  you  a 
broad  hint  by  suggesting  a  bit  of  thoughtful, 
practical  consideration  of  the  morality  plays, 
you  should  nave  no  trouble  ai  all. 

There  it  is,  simple,  elemental,  effective — 
assign  to  each  person  in  your  story  one  single 
trait  of  character  and  make  him  show  it  by 
actions,  words,  thoughts. 

Carry  it  into  as  much  detail  as  possible. 
If  I  remember  aright,  the  recipe's  reputed 
father  took  as  example  a  character  whose 
one  trait  was  cruelty  and  said  that  if  he  were 
made  to  walk  in  a  garden  he  must  be  made 
to  knock  off  the  heads  of  flowers  with  his 
cane  as  he  passed. 

That's  as  far  as  the  recipe  goes,  so  far  as 


174        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

1   I   remember,   but   try   a   second   elementary 

i 

'    step — show  the  reaction  of  this  single  pre- 

;    dominant  trait  upon  the  other  persons  in  the 

!    story,  in  what  they  say  to  him,  do  to  him, 

think  of  him,  always,  of  course,  in  the  light 

of  their  own  single  traits. 

Third  step:  Assign  one  or  more  persons 
a  second  trait,  a  minor  trait,  and  proceed  as 
before. 

Try  it,  if  you  are  not  beyond  the  need  of 
fundamental  suggestions  as  to  characteriza- 
tion. You  will  not  only  reap  a  rich  harvest 
of  concrete  results  but  will  also  be  getting  a 
most  excellent  training. 

Only  a  few  days  ago  I  was  told  of  a  case 
in  which  it  has  had  a  thorough  test.  I've 
■  never  read  anything  by  the  author  in  ques- 
tion, but  know  that  he  turns  out  a  consistent 
and  steady  flow  of  books  whose  sales  are 
enormous  though  treated  with  condescension 
by  critics  of  literature.  The  report  is  that  in 
the  actual  writing  of  his  stories  he  does  not 
even  give  names  to  his  characters  but  uses 
the  name  of  the  predominant  traits  he  as- 
signs to  them — Cruelty,  Honesty,  Vanit3%  and 
so  on.  When  the  story  is  finished  he,  or  per- 
haps his  secretary,  goes  through  the  manu- 


CHARACTER  175 

script,  strikes  out  these  names  of  traits  and 
gives  each  character  whatever  name  meets 
general  requirements.  Voila!  Personally, 
I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  what  would  hap- 
pen to  his  sales  if  he  abandoned  this  method 
and  the  kind  of  characterization  it  produces 
— to  know,  rather,  whether  he  would  ever 
have  had  enormous  sales  if  he  had  not  used 
this  recipe. 

Just  using  the  morality  plays — and  Pil- 
grim's Progress  —  as  a  sound  foundation. 
Maybe  it's  funny,  but  maybe  you  could  profit 
by  it  yourself.  Heaven  knows  that  plenty  of 
writers  could! 

Tags. — If  I  could,  I'd  hang  over  almost 
every  writer's  desk  a  large  card  bearing  in 
very  black  letters  these  words : 

"Remember  that  yours  is  not  the  only  story 
in  the  world  and  that  it  has  to  compete  for 
the  reader's  attention  with  countless  other 
stories.  Your  interest  in  it  is  particularized 
and  personal;  his  is  not.  Also,  you  already 
know  everything  in  the  story;  he  does  not. 
You  may  have  failed  to  put  on  paper  part  of 
what  you  know;  in  that  case  he  will  never 
know  it. 

"Remember  that  3'our  reader  has  met  many 


176         FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

people  in  real  life,  forgotten  all  about  most 
of  them,  including  their  names,  and  that  in 
the  great  number  of  stories  he  has  read  he 
has  met  a  far  greater  number  of  fictitious 
people  who,  along  with  their  names,  fail  in 
even  greater  proportion  than  have  the  real 
people  to  register  upon  his  attention,  interest 
and  memory.  You  are  merely  adding  a  few 
more  to  his  hundreds  of  thousands.  The 
competition  is  heavy.  You  can  make  no 
headway  against  it  if  your  story-persons  are 
only  names,  almost  none  if  they  are  only 
mildly  individualized  and  characterized, 
little  enough  even  if  they  are  drawn  fairly 
strongly. 

"Remember,  too,  that  when  you  introduce 
him  to  more  than  two  or  three  new  people 
they  have  to  compete,  also,  among  them- 
selves— that  he  is  likely  to  have  difficulty 
even  in  straightening  them  out  in  his  mind 
and  connecting  the  right  name  with  each 
character.  If  you  wish  your  people  to  get 
and  hold  his  attention  and  to  have  any  place 
in  his  memory,  you  must  strive  with  all  your 
might  to  mark  each  character,  to  individual- 
ize each  character,  by  every  means  within 
your  reach.     If  you  have  not  a  natural  gift 


CHARACTER  177 

for     character     drawing,     use     elementary 
methods." 

The  particular  elementary,  and  veiy  ef- 
fective, method  I  have  in  mind  is  to  hang  on 
to  each  character  one  or  more  of  vvhat  in  the 
writing  of  plays  are  called,  I  believe,  tags. 
It  can  be  called,  if  you  like,  advertising  j'our  . 
characters.  Most  of  them  need  it.  Or 
might  be  likeiiet.  to  the  use  of  motifs  i.i 
opera.  Or  yoi:  niight  ".n  ".  .^  it  even  a^i  ay- 
proximar\;'  I  to  liic  eonailit  ns  of  real     IV. 

Put  a  '='t^oi!gl5  individualized  iobel  jii  -.ach 
of  your  chari.cicrs  and  make  the  rea  ter^  keep 
looking  at  it.  This  character  conlinu  ^lly  in- 
troduces his  speeches  with  "Well  no  v'  ;  that 
one  is  always  nervously  hitching  up  his 
trousers  at  the  knees;  John  Jones  is  so  inter- 
ested in  golf  that  he  is  perpetually  dragging 
it  into  conversation;  Myrtle  is  always  titter- 
ing; Brown  is  conspicuously  careful  of  his 
personal  appearance,  while  his  brother 
George  wears  anything  that  comes  handy  and 
Sister  Isabel  has  almost  a  monomania  for 
red;  Judson  habitually  looks  into  the  eyes  of 
people  with  an  intent  gaze  that  is  hard  to 
meet;  Henry  in  appearance  and  manner  sug- 
gests   a    sheep;    the    peculiar    blackness    of 


178        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

Maude's  eyes  is  her  most  marked  and  im- 
pressive feature. 

Never  let  a  character  remain  long  on  the 
stage  without  presenting  his  tag.  It  individ- 
ualizes more  strongly  than  a  name.  It  is  a 
most  useful  guide-post  to  the  reader.  It 
strongly  reinforces  character-drawing  and 
may  even  serve  as  a  cheap  substitute,  a  sub- 
stitute at  any  price  being  preferable  to  noth- 
ing. Also,  it  becomes  an  asset  in  itself,  an 
element  of  appeal  that  runs  the  range  from 
farce  to  tragedy  and  you  can  mix  or  alternate 
these  or  other  appeals  with  strong  results. 
Its  effect  is  cumulative.  There  is  for  its  in- 
trinsic value  a  sound  grounding  in  funda- 
mental human  nature — a  reader's  uncon- 
scious pride  and  vanity  in  "detecting"  it  as 
characteristic,  in  being  able  to  forecast  its 
coming,  his  interest  and  consequent  like  or 
dislike  for  tags  in  real  life,  his  comfort  in 
having  mental  tasks  made  easy. 

Of  course,  if  you've  drawn  real  character 
for  the  persons  in  your  story,  make  their  tags 
consistent  with  character — or,  rarely,  in  de- 
liberate and  evident  contrast.  Equally,  of 
course,  a  tag,  like  any  other  good  thing,  must 
be  handled  with  judgment  and  not  allowed  to 
run  riot. 


CHARACTER  179 

Results  from  Tags  and  High-Point  Charac- 
terization.— Study  the  following  fiction  char- 
acters that  have  made  a  big  and  lasting  "hit," 
so  much  so  that  they  have  been  carried 
through  a  series  of  books:  "Sherlock 
Holmes,"  "Captain  Kettle,"  "Don  Q.,"  "Briga- 
dier Gerard,"  "Tartarin,"  "D'Artagnan," 
"Athos,"  "Porthos,"  "Aramis,"  "Mulvaney," 
"Ortheris,"  "Learoyd,"  "Allen  Quartermain," 
"Wallingford";  consider  also  some  charac- 
ters of  Dickens.  Some  of  these  are  well- 
drawn  and  well  rounded  out,  but  others 
reduce  to  the  bare  bones  of  the  "one-trait 
recipe"  and  the  use  of  tags,  really  very  ele- 
mentary creations.  Yet  all  are  made  vivid 
and  individualized  by  means  of  tags  and 
strongly  emphasized  traits  of  character. 
While  the  tags,  for  the  most  part,  are  handled 
with  at  least  a  fair  degree  of  skill,  the  char- 
acterization in  some  cases,  though  of  course 
not  limited  to  a  single  trait,  is  incomplete, 
very  elementary  and  not  very  well  done.  Yet 
all  have  gained  a  strong  popular  success,  not 
just  from  the  stories  in  which  they  appear, 
but  as  characters. 

It  is  clear  from  the  above  that  while  the 
*'one-trait  recipe"  and  the  use  of  tags  do  not 
necessarily  spell  literature   they  are  by  no 


180        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

means  incompatible  with  it.  They  are  merely 
first  steps  toward  really  good  character  depic- 
tion. Their  importance  in  any  teaching  of  fic- 
tion is  due  chiefly  to  the  lamentable  fact  that 
most  writers  do  not  take  or  even  see  them. 

Even  advanced  writers  can  often  profit 
from  consideration  of  their  values.  For  ex- 
ample, in  a  certain  successful  series  of  novel- 
ettes and  novels  told  in  the  first  person  but 
centering  on  another  character,  the  narrator 
was  almost  entirely  lacking  in  tags  and 
salient  character  traits  and  didn't  even  have 
a  name,  or  a  past,  or  a  body,  or,  often,  clothes 
until  well  along  in  the  series.  He  was  con- 
sistently drawn,  so  far  as  he  went,  but  almost 
colorless  and  with  little  grip  on  interest  and 
memory,  though  having  a  prominent  place  in 
the  plot  and  not  thus  subordinated  for  the 
sake  of  relative  values  and  unity  around  the 
central  character.  The  central  character  was 
strongly  drawn,  tags  and  all,  and  the  series  as 
a  whole  had  so  many  other  merits  that  the 
colorlessness  of  the  fictitious  narrator  could 
not  wreck  it,  but  its  improvement  was  very 
marked  when  he  was  developed  and  brought 
to  his  proper  place  in  the  lime-light  by  the 
tags  and  salient  traits  needed  in  addition  to 
the  general  filling  in. 


CHARACTER  181 

Characterization  in  General. — I  attempt  no 
covering  of  the  subject,  desiring  only  to  bring 
out  the  points  that  the  general  in-flow  of 
manuscripts  shows  are,  in  practise,  most  in 
need  of  attention.  There  are  already  hosts 
of  books  giving  detailed  instructions, 
theories,  examples,  analyses  and  exercises. 
Some  of  them  are  useful  and  valuable  in 
many  cases.  In  general  they  seem  to  me 
likely  to  be  dangerous,  unless  the  student 
uses  exceptional  care,  in  that  they  are  likely 
to  encourage  a  tendency  toward  mechanics 
instead  of  art,  artificiality  instead  of  natural- 
ness, strain  and  limitation  instead  of  free- 
dom, and  copying  instead  of  art.  I  am  aware 
that  tags  and  the  "one-trait  recipe"  seem 
open  to  the  same  charge,  but  their  saving 
clause  is  that  they  can  teach  the  writer  how 
to  develop  himself  rather  than  how  to  turn 
out  finished  work  by  rule.  Also  the  present 
need  of  them  in  practise  is  appalling,  and 
perhaps  that  need  would  not  be  so  great  if 
writers  had  been  trained  by  more  naturalistic 
methods. 

The  only  sound  and  comprehensive  rule  for 
characterization  is: 

Study  people,  first  as  subjects,  second  as 
recipients  of  the  knowledge  you  have  gained. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

INDIVIDUALITY  VS.  TECHNIQUE 

Year  after  year  editors  sit  at  their  desks 
and  almost  at  a  single  glance  reject  anywhere 
from  sixty  to  ninety  per  cent,  of  the  manu- 
scripts that  come  in,  and,  on  the  whole,  they 
make  few  mistakes  in  so  doing.  Some  of 
these  summarily  rejected  ones  are  so  illiter- 
ate that  most  freshmen  in  college  would 
unhesitatingly  turn  them  down,  but  on  the 
majority  is  the  damning  and  almost  unmis- 
takable brand  of  "no  individuality" — merely 
another  manuscript  plodding  blindly  along 
in  the  machine-like  effort  to  turn  out  by 
machine-like  methods  another  one  "like 
those  they've  read,"  another  stilted,  unnat- 
ural attempt  at  producing  a  life-like  copy  of 
a  model  denaturalized,  by  them  or  their 
teachers,  into  a  mechanical  and  artificial  col- 
lection of  rags,  bones  and  hanks  of  hair  that 
has  never  known  the  breath  of  life. 
182 


INDIVIDUALITY   VS.    TECHNIQUE  183 

Lack  of  Individuality. — How  can  the  editor 
tell  at  a  glance?  How  in  heaven's  name  can 
he  help  telling?  He's  read  the  same  kind  of 
thing — the  same  thing  except  for  variations 
of  theme  and  setting — thousands  and  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  times  before  until 
recognizing  it  at  a  glance  is  as  easy  as  recog- 
nizing a  trolley-car  among  other  vehicles  on 
his  way  to  the  office  of  mornings.  The  tracks 
are  no  plainer  in  one  case  than  the  other. 

But  maybe  the  author  does  better  farther 
on  in  the  story?  Doubtless  it  has  happened, 
but  the  instances  constitute  a  negligible  fac- 
tor. That  poor  editor  learned  to  hunt  no 
farther  only  by  hunting  farther  thousands  of 
times,  when  he  was  new  and  optimistic,  and 
finding  nothing.  He  has  learned  that  any 
writer  fool  enough  to  begin  a  story  in  so 
stupid  a  way  is  too  much  a  fool  all  the  way 
along  to  be  worth  listening  to. 

Disbelieve  this  ability,  if  you  like,  and  let's 
pass  on  to  the  stories  he  does  not  discard  at 
a  glance.  These  he  reads  to  varying  extents, 
according  to  their  ability  to  hold  him  as  an 
editor — sometimes  a  cursory  examination, 
sometimes  solid  parts  here  and  there,  some- 
times straight  through,  sometimes  only  part 


184        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

way.  Many  things,  including  mistaken  judg- 
ment, can  stop  him,  but  oftenest  of  all  I  be- 
lieve it  is  the  story's  lack  of  individuality. 
He  finds  he's  read  it  too  many  times  before 
and  knows  that  his  readers  have. 

The  sameness  may  be  in  plot,  theme,  style, 
anything  or  all  together,  but  it's  the  sameness 
that  stops  him  and  kills  the  story.  As  a 
reader,  judge  for  yourself  from  the  stories 
that  get  published,  after  editors  have  dis- 
carded all  but  enough  to  fill  their  space — 
all  but  one  to  five  per  cent,  say,  of  the  total 
submitted.  Is  there  not  sufficient  sameness 
in  even  these?  Then  judge  what  the  dis- 
carded ninety-five  or  ninety-nine  per  cent, 
must  be,  making  any  reasonable  allowance 
you  please  for  the  fallibility  of  editors. 

Reasons  for  the  Lack. — Much  of  the  lack 
of  individuality  in  stories  is  due  to  lack  of 
individuality  in  the  writers.  To  what  degree 
a  person  can  develop  his  individuality  I  do 
not  presume  to  say,  but  lack  of  real  individ- 
uality in  his  stories  is  curable  to  exactly  that 
degree  and  no  more. 

But  many  of  the  writers  whose  stories  show 
none,  have  individuality.  Why  doesn't  it 
show  in  their  work?    Because  they  have  been 


INDIVIDUALITY   VS.   TECHNIQUE  185 

taught  by  present  methods  of  teaching  fic- 
tion to  be  artificial,  not  natural,  or  have 
themselves  slavishly  modeled  themselves 
after  some  one  else. 

What  chance  has  your  individuality  if  you 
turn  your  back  on  it  and  resolutely  try  to 
copy  another  man's,  or  if  you  lose  yourself  in 
an  endless  maze  of  rules  and  regulations? 
Rules  and  regulations  imposed,  for  the  most 
part,  by  people  equally  lost  in  the  maze. 

No,  you  can't  let  your  individuality  run 
riot  regardless  of  all  rules,  for  some  rules  are 
laws  of  the  human  mind  to  which  all  of  us 
are  subject.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  you 
must  assassinate  your  individuality.  It  is 
your  main  asset.  Without  it,  neither  empty 
rules  nor  sound  laws  can  build  anything  of 
themselves. 

Technique?  Of  course  you  need  technique^ 
but  if  you  make  of  it  a  golden  calf  and  bow 
down  in  worship,  you  perish. 

Get  technique;  don't  let  it  get  you.  What 
technique  should  give  you  is  tools,  not  rules. 
And  not  a  monomaniac  collector's  collection 
of  tools,  collected  for  the  sake  of  including  all 
tools  known  to  man,  but  only  those  tools  so 
well  mastered  that  they  fit  almost  automati- 


186        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

cally  into  your  hand,  carrying  out  smoothly 
the  guiding  impulse  of  your  brain. 

But  you  have  to  learn  to  use  them  before 
you  can  acquire  such  skill?  Yes,  but  remem- 
ber the  purpose  of  your  learning — and  don't 
try  to  learn  and  use  more  tools  than  you  can 
master.  Remember  that  an  augur  is  an 
augur — that  it's  not  a  demand  upon  you  to 
bore  a  hole  in  something,  but  onlj'^  a  means 
of  making  a  hole  when  one  is  needed.  Be- 
cause a  hammer  is  for  driving  nails  do  you 
have  to  use  it  when  you're  modeling  in  clay? 

I  dare  say  it  is  bad  taste  for  me  to  criticize 
other  books  on  writing  fiction  and  other 
methods  of  teaching  fiction,  but,  pardon  me, 
I  don't  give  a  damn.  For  years  I've  sat  and 
watched  teachers,  poorly  equipped  for  the 
task  and  perfectly  equipped  for  their  manner 
of  handling  it,  blandly  do  their  utmost  to  ruin 
a  writer  by  holding  before  his  wide  eyes  so 
miany  rules  that  he  finds  it  difficult  ever  to 
see  anything  else.  If  among  them  are  in- 
cluded some  rules  on  preserving  his  individ- 
uality while  he's  following  all  the  other  rules, 
what  can  that  mean  to  him?  If  liis  teachers 
perchance  present  technique  as  tools,  not 
rules,  they  load  so  many  of  them  upon  his 


INDIVIDUALITY   VS.   TECHNIQUE  187 

trustful  back  that  he  can  not  walk,  to  say 
nothing  of  mastering  the  tools. 

The  essence  of  their  damage  lies  in  two 
things : 

First,  the  rules  they  pour  forth  so  endlessly 
they  themselves  got  from  some  one  else  and 
accept  them  chiefly  for  that  reason.  Ask 
them  the  why  of  each  of  their  rules  and  there 
is  likely  to  be  a  considerable  hiatus  between 
their  last  book  and  the  next. 

Too  often  they  seem  to  have  been  merely 
perpetuating  an  hereditary  collection  of  rules 
for  the  sake  of  preserving  the  collection  as  an 
entity  in  itself,  forgetting  that  some  of  the 
rules  might  be  unsound  and  neglecting — if 
they  ever  thought  about  them — to  give  their 
students  the  foundations  in  human  nature 
upon  which  the  sound  ones  must  rest. 

Second,  the  whole  tendency  of  such  teach- 
ing is  to  make  the  learner  look  at  other  writ- 
ers instead  of  within  himself,  to  absorb  other 
people's  style  and  methods  instead  of  devel- 
oping his  own,  to  copy  rather  than  to  think 
things  out  for  himself,  to  be  artificial  rather 
than  natural,  cramped  rather  than  free,  to 
waste  his  time  on  details  instead  of  giving  it 
to  vital  things. 


188        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

I  should  venture  no  such  strong  condemna- 
tion if  I  did  not  feel  that  I  am  merely  voicing 
the  opinion  of  most  editors — of  the  men  and 
women  who  are  in  best  position  to  note  the 
devastating  effects  upon  to-day's  fiction.  And 
I  am,  of  course,  speaking  of  the  books  and 
teaching  methods  as  a  class.  There  are  ex- 
ceptions, naturally — though  one  writer,  for 
example,  tells  me  he  has  read  between  forty 
and  fifty  books  on  fiction  writing,  finding 
only  one  of  them  worth  while — and  practi- 
cally all  such  books  can  be  of  use,  sometimes 
of  very  great  use,  to  the  raw  beginner.  So  can 
a  rhetoric  or  a  common  English  grammar. 

In  the  light  of  results,  the  fundamental 
point  these  books  most  fail  to  make  is  that 
most  of  their  contents  should  be  read — not 
memorized  or  swallowed — for  stimulus  and 
suggestion  only,  and  that  the  student  must  see 
to  it  that  no  rules  turn  him  aside  from  his 
main  business  of  developing  and  using  his 
own  individuality. 

I  am  painfully  aware  that  in  this  book  I, 
too,  have  given  rules  as  rules,  but  I  have  tried 
to  give  the  foundations  of  a  sufficient  number 
of  them  to  lead  the  student  into  the  habit  of 
looking  for  foundations  himself  and  working 


INDIVIDUALITY    VS.    TECHNIQUE  189 

out  his  own  destiny.  For  the  foundations  I 
ask  consideration,  for  my  rules  none  at  all  ex- 
cept as  danger-signs  erected  from  twenty 
years'  experience  to  point  out  the  errors  most 
common  in  actual  practise. 

I  am  still  more  keenly  aware  that  in  many 
instances  I  fail  to  meet  possible  objections  and 
justified  exceptions.  Often  it  is  because  I  fail 
to  think  of  them  at  the  time  or  never  thought 
of  them,  but  often  it  is  because  there  is  a  limit 
to  available  space  and  because  too  many  as- 
pects and  too  much  detail  breed  confusion. 
Literature  is  the  communication,  between 
human  beings,  of  human  nature  and  human 
experience.  Who  can  give  complete  rules  for 
a  process  and  content  so  infinitely  various? 
Bear  in  mind  first,  last  and  always,  that  this 
book  does  not  attempt  to  be  a  complete 
treatise  on  writing  fiction.  Its  purpose  is  to 
emphasize  those  points  and  points  of  view 
that,  from  years  of  examining  the  actual 
manuscripts  submitted  to  magazines,  seem 
most  to  need  emphasis,  and,  second,  to  raise 
against  the  present  fashion  in  teaching  meth- 
ods a  small  flag  of  revolt  under  which  I  be- 
lieve most  editors  and  most  discriminating 
readers  will  be  content  to  stand,  no  matter 


190        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

how  great  may  be  their  disagreement  with 
me  on  specific  points. 

Unfamiliarity  with  Things  Taught. — Last 
week  I  borrowed  three  books  on  the  writing 
of  fiction  and  ran  through  their  pages.  One 
was  by  a  university  professor  who  gave  a 
most  interesting  picture  of  the  editorial  world, 
of  its  offices,  their  occupants,  customs,  rules, 
policies,  points  of  view.  The  title-page  stated 
that  he  had  formerly  been  with  a  publishing 
house — probably  for  the  sake  of  the  experi- 
ence, during  a  summer  vacation.  I  became 
fascinated,  almost  wishing  I  could  live  in  that 
world  myself.    I  never  have. 

I  realize  that,  for  those  entirely  unfamiliar 
with  the  inside  of  the  editorial  world,  his  pic- 
ture of  it  was  sufficiently  near  the  truth  to  be 
of  decided  practical  value.  Yet  his  almost 
glib  generalities  and  his  choices  for  particu- 
larization  made  me  shudder  for  the  misap- 
prehensions that  might  arise  from  them.  He 
was  like  the  European  traveler  who  spends  a 
month  or  two  in  the  United  States  and  then 
describes  and  explains  it  to  the  world.  Any 
conscientious  editor  of  long  experience  would, 
I  think,  hesitate  before  attempting  to  present 
in  a  chapter  or  two  of  a  text-book  for  earnest 


INDIVIDUALITY   VS.   TECHNIQUE  191 

students  a  complete  and  final  exposition  of 
the  editorial  field.  It  is  too  complex,  too 
various,  too  changeable. 

And  if  these  teachers  venture  to  expound 
so  much  and  so  finally  from  so  small  a  knowl- 
edge of  what  may  be  called  the  mere  machin- 
ery of  the  editorial  world,  it  seems  logical  to 
conclude  that  they  may  have  equally  insuf- 
ficient basis  when  they  attempt  to  explain 
what  kind  of  fiction  the  editors  want  and 
how  to  manufacture  it. 

Evils  of  Models  and  Examples. — But  what 
struck  me  most  forcibly  in  those  three  books 
was  the  vast  amount  of  space  given  to  models 
and  examples.  Stories  were  constantly  being 
laid  upon  the  operating  table,  in  whole  or 
part,  and  dissected  and  analyzed.  The  pages 
were  strewn  with  dismembered  parts,  ticketed 
and  labeled,  to  be  sure,  and  filed  in  most 
orderly  fashion,  but  the  panorama  as  a  whole 
was  enough  to  ruin  a  writer  forever  if  it  did 
not  drive  him  mad.  Oh  yes,  I  know  we  must 
take  a  clock  apart  before  we  can  learn  how 
to  make  a  clock,  but  an  artist  should  live  in  a 
studio,  not  an  operating-room.  The  use  of 
examples  and  models  is  a  valuable  adjunct 
of  teaching,  but  it  is  not  teaching.    As  far  as 


192        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

I  can  learn  from  cursory  glances  from  time 
to  time,  through  inquiry  and  through  noting 
results  in  submitted  manuscripts,  dissected 
models  and  examples  form  the  backbone  of 
teaching  method.  Use  them,  by  all  means, 
but  only  sufficiently  to  show  the  student  how 
to  do  his  own  analyzing  when  he  feels  the 
need.  And  teach  him  general  principles  to 
make  him  keen  to  the  need  when  it  is  there. 
Teach  him  to  work ;  don't  litter  his  mind  with 
tiie  work  you've  done  on  a  third  person's 
work. 

The  mechanical  method  of  teaching  is  per- 
fectly adapted  to  those  students  who  by  no 
possibility  can  be  anything  but  mechanical 
writers,  working  by  rule  of  thumb,  building 
a  structure  by  foot-rule  and  pouring  in  its 
contents  from  a  graduated  beaker.  But  is 
producing  such  writers  worth  while  or  even 
justifiable?  Even  if  your  purpose  is  the 
broader,  industrial  one  of  adding  to  the  gen- 
eral earning  capacity  of  the  nation?  Of 
course,  if  you  are  merely  writing  a  text-book 
tliat  will  sell — 

It  is  upon  the  writers  who  are  not  doomed 
by  their  own  limitations  to  be  merely  me- 
chanics that  the  curse  of  mechanical  teaching 


rNDIVIDUALITY  VS.   TECHNIQUE  193 

falls.  The  genius  and  the  really  strong  indi- 
vidualist will  escape,  but  what  of  him  with 
moderate  or  even  considerable  gifts?  He 
goes  into  the  bed  of  Procrustes.  He  is  lopped 
here,  stretched  there;  he  is  badgered  and 
blinded  with  examples  and  precedents,  kept 
from  natural  development  and  natural  ex- 
pression by  the  study  of  rules  for  growth  and 
by  listening  to  otlier  people  express  them- 
selves, prevented  from  being  himself  and 
giving  rein  to  his  own  individuality  by  the 
constant  study  of  individualities  not  his  own. 
If  only  you  could  sit  for  a  year  at  some  edi- 
torial desk  and  see  these  poor  maimed  fel- 
lows come  in  endless  line  with  their  pathetic, 
lifeless  wares!  Well-made  stories,  so  much 
so  that  they  are  almost  exactly  like  all  other 
well-made  stories,  but  in  them  here  and  there 
a  still  unsmothered  spark  that  might  have 
been  a  flame.  And  after  the  procession  has 
filed  up  to  you  for  a  while  it  is  not  the  prop- 
erly built  stories  they  lay  on  your  desk  that 
you  sec,  but  those  countless  other  stories  that 
will  never  be  laid  on  any  desk.  It  is  like  look- 
ing out  over  the  world  of  children  who  can 
never  be  born,  the  better  children,  the  dream 
children,  who  could  make  the  world  so  much 


194        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

better  if  only  they  were  here.  If  you  could 
sit  for  a  year  at  some  editorial  desk,  you 
would  join  with  me  in  saying,  "Damn  such 
teaching  methods!" 

Individuality  and  Naturalness  First. — You 
who  are  learning  to  write — and  writers  are 
always  learning  if  they  are  worthy  of  their 
name — put  this  little  rule  at  the  head  of  all 
your  list  of  rules  and  let  no  rule  that  follows 
seem  to  you  one-half  so  well  worth  clinging 

to:   EXPRESS  YOUR  NATURAL  SELF  NATURALLY. 

Believe  me,  it  is  worth  clinging  to,  even  at 
the  cost  of  aches  and  bruises.  As  for  all  the 
other  rules,  accept  only  those  grounded  solid- 
ly in  human  nature  and  take  for  your  guides, 
not  the  rules,  but  their  foundations.  If  you 
find  yourself  drifting  into  the  stilted  dialect 
so  many  feel  must  be  assumed  on  entering 
the  printed  page,  tear  up  what  you  have  writ- 
ten and  say  your  say  in  your  own  words. 
Maybe  the  result  will  be  sad  indeed;  there  are 
always  many  things  to  learn.  But  in  your 
learning  you  will  find  no  secret  of  technique, 
no  trick  of  the  trade,  that  is  not  second  in  im- 
portance to  the  prime  necessity  of  develop- 
ing and  expressing  your  own  individuality. 
If  they  hold  before  your  eyes  some  story  by 
De  Mf^nnnssant,  Stevenson,  Kipling,  O.  Henry, 


INDIVIDUALITY   VS.   TECHNIQUE  195 

look  b}'^  all  means  and  study  what  you  see, 
but  be  sure  that  your  strongest  reaction  is, 
"Yes,  these  are  deft  uses  of  tools,  masterly 
handlings  of  thought,  and  I  will  be  awake  to 
similar  opportunities  in  my  own  work,  but 
the  fact  remains  that  what  I  have  seen  is  only 
De  Maupassant  using  his  tools,  Stevenson 
using  his,  and  the  others  each  his  own.  I  am 
not  De  Maupassant  or  Stevenson  or  Kipling 
or  O.  Henry  or  anybody  else  except  myself. 
I  can't  possibly  ever  be  any  of  them,  and  if  I 
try  to  be  any  of  them  I  can't  be  even  myself. 
Perhaps  their  tools  and  devices  are  not  the 
ones  best  adapted  to  my  case,  though  they 
may  prove  valuable.  Now  I'll  go  back  to  my 
work." 

And  if  they  ask  you  to  look  at  many  other 
workmen,  refuse  utterly.  Do  your  own  look- 
ing. You  probably  know  far  better  than  they 
what  it  is  you  need  to  look  for;  if  you  don't 
know  where  to  look  for  it,  then  ask.  You'll 
probably  be  looking  enough  without  any  one's 
driving  you  to  it.  And,  always,  when  you 
look,  carry  away  with  you  only  what  you  can 
absorb.  Undigested  food  of  this  kind  will 
kill  you. 

Being  "Literary." — Don't  try  to  be  "liter- 
ary" until  you  know  what  being  "literary" 


196        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

really  means.  Most  writers  do  not  know. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  know,  but  certainly  I  know 
a  few  things  it  is  and  a  few  things  it  is  not. 

It  is  not  being  queer  for  the  sake  of  queer- 
ness.  It  is  not  using  large  and  learned  words. 
It  is  not  getting  as  far  away  as  possible  from 
the  language  of  life.  It  is  not  thinking,  feel- 
ing or  talking  artificially  instead  of  naturally. 
It  is  not  the  copying  of  others.  It  is  not  either 
wallowing  in  strong  emotions  or  daintily 
avoiding  them. 

It  is  telling  things  as  you  see  or  feel  them. 
It  is  using  the  words  that  accomplish  this  with 
least  lost  motion,  words  so  natural  and  famil- 
iar you  are  sure  they  are  exact  to  the  case. 
It  is  the  preserving,  developing  and  express- 
ing of  your  own  individuality. 

Style?  Be  yourself  and  your  style  will  be 
born  of  itself.  Be  anything  else  and,  instead 
of  style,  you  will  attain  only  an  acrobatic  per- 
formance. There  are  enough  acrobats  al- 
ready, and  enough  people  who  are  not  them- 
selves. 

I  should  like  to  add,  with  some  bitterness, 
that  a  knowledge  of  plain  English  grammar, 
even  for  writers  who  consider  themselves 
"arrived,"  is  an  almost  necessary  step  toward 
being  "literary." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  READER  AND  HIS   IMAGINATION 

When  you  read  a  story  you  live  more  or 
less  in  its  story  world.  There  arc  printed 
words  on  the  page  and  they  cause  your  imag- 
ination (I  do  not  use  the  word  in  the  sense  of 
"fancy"  but  to  indicate  the  mental  power 
that  chooses  and  discards  among  certain 
things  to  construct  certain  other  things)  to 
build  from  your  own  experience  a  set  of 
mental  images  or  impressions.  The  story's 
world  becomes  real  to  you  in  proportion  as 
the  storj^'s  words  succeed  in  making  you  re- 
produce |it  in  your  mind. 

Variation  in  Visualization. — But  the  suc- 
cess of  the  story's  words  in  doing  this  is 
dependent  not  only  on  the  skill  and  power  of 
their  stimulus  but  also  on  the  ability  of  your 
imagination  to  respond.  Success  is  depend- 
ent not  only  on  the  writer  but  on  the  reader. 

Readers  vary  tremendously  in  the  funda- 
197 


198        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

mental  ability  of  their  imaginations  to  re- 
spond, both  as  to  quality  and  degree.  It  is 
surprising  that  this  fact  is  so  little  known,  for 
its  careful  consideration  is  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance to  success  in  writing  fiction.  While 
my  questionings  have  been  only  casual,  I 
have  not  yet  found  either  a  writer  or  an  ed- 
itor who  took  this  variation  as  a  serious 
factor  in  his  work  or  who  had  even  discov- 
ered the  existence  of  the  variation.  Where- 
fore ni}^  gratitude  is  the  deeper  to  Professor 
Joseph  Villiers  Denney  for  having  brought  it 
to  my  attention  in  a  college  class  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago. 

If  you  have  not  already  investigated,  make 
the  experiment  upon  your  friends.  Ask 
your  friends  what  they  see  when  they  read  a 
story  and  you  will  find  amazing  variations. 
Some  visualize  clearly  everj^thing  mentioned 
or  suggested — see  the  characters,  actions  and 
scene  in  full  detail  just  as  on  a  stage  or  in 
real  life.  Others  see  things  and  movement, 
but  without  colors  in  their  pictures.  Some 
see  people  but  without  faces.  Some  see 
things  only  if,  and  only  as  fully  as,  described 
by  the  author.  Some  see  fully  even  if  the  au- 
thor fails  to  describe.    Some  make  their  own 


THE    READER   AND   HIS    IMAGINATION  199 

images  partly  different  from  even  definite 
ones  painted  by  the  author,  often  because  he 
fails  to  impress  his  images  first.  (In  tlie  set- 
ting of  a  story,  for  example,  haven't  you,  if 
you  visualize  readily,  had  to  change  your 
picture  of  the  scene's  geography  or  pick  up 
the  whole  setting  and  twist  it  around  to 
make  north  come  where  you  had  had  east?) 
Remember  this  when  you  are  the  author,  and 
save  your  readers  this  violence  to  the  il- 
lusion. Some  have  a  stock  imagination- 
picture  that  does  service  for  a  concept  in 
almost  any  circumstances.  Some  see  practic- 
ally nothing — can  not  shut  their  eyes  and  see 
the  very  room  in  which  they  are  sitting  or 
even  the  faces  of  their  nearest  and  dearest. 

I  knew  a  high-school  valedictorian  who 
easily  mastered  every  subject  until  she  came 
to  solid  geometry.  In  that  study  she  could 
not  even  make  a  start,  was  totally  helpless — 
simply  because  she  was  constitutionally  in- 
capable of  looking  at  the  two-dimension 
page  and  seeing,  in  her  imagination,  the 
third  dimension.  She  got  raw  potatoes,  cut 
them  up  to  represent  the  three-dimension 
figures  and  had  no  further  trouble.  An- 
other woman  overcame  the  same  difficulty 


200        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

by  the  same  vegetable  route.  I  know  an  ar- 
tist, very  successfully  designing  stage-settings, 
who  can  not  "tell  how  things  will  look"  unless 
he  looks  at  them,  or  pictures  or  models  of 
them,  with  his  physical  eye. 

Yet  most  writers  attempt  to  reach  all  these 
types  of  imagination  without  giving  the  mat- 
ter a  thought!  Generally  they  calmly  take 
it  for  granted  that  every  one  of  their  readers 
has  exactly  the  same  qualities  and  limita- 
tions of  imaginative  visualization  as  them- 
selves! What  rich  opportunities  are  lost! 
Here  is  a  matter  in  which  you  should  not, 
without  very  careful  consideration,  write 
things  merely  as  you  see  them,  at  least  when  it 
comes  to  revision,  unless  your  way  of  seeing 
them  happens  to  be  the  way  that  is  most  ef- 
fective with  most  people. 

Each  author  has  his  individual  qualities  in 
this  respect.  When  he  paints  his  word  pic- 
tures he  tends  to  use  only  as  many  strokes 
of  his  brush  as  make  a  complete  and  satis- 
fying picture  for  him.  But  how  complete  or 
satisfying  will  that  picture  be  to  the  major- 
ity of  readers  who  may  not  even  approxi- 
mate his  qualities  of  imaginative  visualiza- 
tion?   The  words  he  has  set  down  give  him 


THE   READER   AND   HIS    IMAGINATION  201 

the  picture,  but  will  they  give  it  to  others? 
He  can  not  test  out  the  visualization  of  the 
entire  population,  but  he  can  at  least  assign 
himself  a  fairly  definite  place  in  the  relative 
scale,  scrutinize  his  word  pictures  from  the 
point  of  view  of  those  of  different  powers 
and  probably  revise  his  painting  methods  so 
that  his  stories  will  gain  surprisingly  in  pop- 
ular appeal,  either  by  additional  touches  or 
by  changing  the  relative  proportion  of  the 
various  kinds  of  stimulus. 

A  certain  writer  of  w^estern  stories  found 
that  his  work  made  a  strong  appeal  to  those 
it  interested  at  all,  but  that  the  size  of  his 
audience  was  far  less  than  seemed  justly 
merited.  Apparently  all  the  elements  of 
good  fiction  were  present.  But,  if  he  had 
considered  his  readers'  psychology  in  other 
respects,  he  certainly  had  not  done  so  as  to 
visualization.  He  himself  could  reread  his 
words  and  from  them  see  his  story  world  in 
full.  So  could  I,  for  we  both  happened  to 
have  the  type  of  imagination  that  visualizes 
readily  and  fills  gaps  when  needed.  But 
many  readers  haven't  this  type  and,  as 
finally  became  apparent,  these  were  largely 
the  ones  who  had  failed  to  become  part  of 


202        FUNDAMENTALS  OF   FICTION   WRITING 

his  normal  audience.  For  he  had  not  drawn 
any  visual  pictures  for  those  who  need  them. 
To  them  his  story  people  were  merely  names 
and  dispositions,  without  clothes  or  bodily 
appearance,  that  did  dim  things  in  unseen 
places.  The  author  had  deemed  it  waste  of 
words  to  describe  things  that  were — to  him — 
seen  of  themselves.  It  was  difficult  to  get 
him  to  "pad"  his  stories  with  visualizing  de- 
scriptions, but  when  he  began  adding  them 
his  audience  began  to  grow. 

Variation  in  Other  Imaginative  Powers. — 
You  will  find  that  probably  a  minority  have 
imaginations  that  reproduce  not  only  visual 
impressions  but  those  of  the  other  senses. 
Some  can  hear  the  sounds  of  a  story — not 
merely  have  an  intelligent  concept  of  sounds 
mentioned,  but  actually  hear  them  almost  as 
clearly  as  if  they  were  actual  physical 
sounds.  Some  can  taste  via  their  imagina- 
tions, with  such  vividness  that  their  mouths 
water.  Some  can  smell  the  odors  in  a  story 
they  read.  Some  can  reproduce  the  impres- 
sions that  register  through  the  sense  of  touch 
— smoothness,  friction,  impact,  pressure. 

I  hope  to  have  for  a  later  volume  some 
statistics  that  will  give  some  idea  of  the  rel- 


THE   READER  AND  HIS   IMAGINATION  203 

ative  frequency  of  the  reproduction  of  the 
senses.  In  any  case,  the  great  opportunity 
for  loss  or  gain  of  hold  on  readers  offered 
tlirough  visual  imagination  is  considerably 
multiplied  by  tlie  cases  of  the  four  other 
senses.  The  field  as  a  whole  is  so  important 
it  is  almost  incredible  that  it  does  not  play  a 
main  part  in  all  teaching  of  fiction  writing. 
Appeal  to  the  senses  may  possibly  be  includ- 
ed, though  I've  not  chanced  on  it  in  my 
cursory  glances  at  text-books,  but,  as  previ- 
ously stated,  up  to  this  writing  I've  happened 
to  find  no  writer  who  has  even  considered 
the  variation  in  sense-imagination  among 
readers. 

I  recall  a  statement  in  Professor  Denney's 
thesis  class  to  the  effect  that  analysis  would 
show  the  most  popular  poets,  like  Burns  and 
Longfellow,  to  be  as  a  rule  strongly  marked 
bj^  their  imagination  appeal  to  all  or  most 
of  the  five  senses.  Is  there  any  reason  why  a 
similarly  broad  appeal  in  the  case  of  prose 
would  not  reap  like  results?  The  case  would 
seem  to  be  stated  thus:  The  more  fully  you 
reach  a  reader,  the  more  fully  you  reach 
him. 

Suppose  your  imagination  sees  and  hears. 


204        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

but  does  not  smell,  taste  or  touch.  Look  at 
one  of  your  own  stories.  Have  you  given 
comparatively  few  pictures  or  stimuli  to 
your  readers'  visual  and  auditory  imagina- 
tion, perhaps  taking  it  for  granted  that  all 
readers  would  supply  them  fully  and  satis- 
factorily, as  you  do?  Or  have  you,  simply 
absorbed  in  your  own  personal  equation, 
failed  to  put  into  your  story  any  consider- 
able number  of  stimuli  to  smell,  taste  and 
touch  imaginations?  In  either  case,  con- 
sider how  greatly  j^ou  have  weakened  your 
story. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  PLACE  OF  ACTION   IN  FICTION 

As  PEOPLE  progress  in  culture  there  is  a 
strong  tendency  more  and  more  to  consider 
physical  action  in  fiction  crude.  This  is  un- 
fortunate— and  unthinking. 

Action  Considered  Unliterary. — ^The  cause, 
I  think,  is  twofold.  First,  most  of  the  crud- 
est published  fiction  relies  to  a  great  extent 
on  action.  It  is  natural  and  illogical  to  con- 
struct the  following  syllogism: 

All  crude  fiction  is  action. 
Crudity  is  poor  art. 
Therefore  action  is  poor  art. 

Second,  as  a  race  develops  in  civilization 
and  culture  it  nearly  always  tends  to  lose 
vigor,  drifts  further  and  further  away  from 
physical  action  and  more  and  more  into 
ease,  inactivity  and  softness.  It  also  tends 
more  and  more  to  nicety  and  detail  and 
205 


206        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

away  from  the  elemental.  Physical  action  is 
elemental  and  inclined  to  sweep  nicety  and 
detail  aside.  Naturally  both  critics  and 
writers  come  to  consider  action  crude,  some- 
thing behind  and  beneath  them.  Conse- 
quently, as  a  rule,  only  the  lower-grade  writ- 
ers use  much  action.  Consequently  action 
stories  as  a  whole  sink  to  a  still  lower  level. 
Consequently  readers  feel  still  more  justi- 
fied in  considering  action  crude.    But  is  it? 

False  Culture. — Things  would  be  vastly 
simplified  and  improved  if  all  who  think 
they  know  what  really  constitutes  good  lit- 
erature really  did  know.  Nine  out  of  ten 
have  for  sole  standard  the  opinions  of  oth- 
ers. The  "others"  are  fallible,  many  of  them 
distinctly  unreliable.  The  nine  are,  of 
course,  unable  to  tell  whose  or  which  opin- 
ions are  worth  while.  None  of  them  does 
any  real  thinking  of  his  own  and  most  of 
them  do  not  even  make  the  attempt.  There 
are  nine  of  them  who  do  not  to  one  who  does 
think  and  does  know.  The  resulting  stand- 
ard is  painful.     Also  artificial  and  unsound. 

A  sad  feature  is  that  their  methods  tend  to 
unify  their  opinions  and  thus  give  them  the 
preponderating    influence    in    shaping    the 


THE    PLACE   OF   ACTION    IN   FICTION  207 

opinions  of  all  the  people  who  don't  pretend 
to  know.  Professional  critics  being  com- 
parativeW  few,  each  critic  sways  many 
sheep.  Also,  the  sheep  have  been  referred, 
rightly  enough,  to  the  Atlantic  as  the  "most 
literary  magazine  in  America."  They  accept 
its  standard  without  discrimination  or  un- 
derstanding. If  a  piece  of  fiction  is  differ- 
ent, in  any  way,  from  tlie  fiction  of  the 
Atlantic,  they  therefore  consider  it  unliter- 
ary.  Worst  of  all,  many  of  those  who  judge 
by  Atlantic  standards  have  a  bare  bowing  ac- 
quaintance with  that  most  excellent  maga- 
zine. 

Now  the  Atlantic,  for  all  its  scope  and 
splendid  humanness,  in  some  respects  sal- 
vors of  the  library  rather  than  of  the  rough 
world  at  large.  Critics,  being  human,  and 
being  generally  compelled  to  do  a  lot  of 
criticizing,  weary  of  the  everlasting  funda- 
mentals and  seek  relief  in  attention  to  the 
niceties  and  curlycues,  these  being,  also, 
more  plentifully  at  hand.  The  sheep  herded 
by  the  critics  and  by  the  Atlantic  "habit" 
naturally  come  to  look  down,  way  down, 
upon  the  action  story. 

Also,  popular  demand  for  action  in  fiction 


208        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

continues  strong.  It  is  a  cardinal  tenet  of 
the  unliterary  literary  person's  belief  that 
anything  popular  is  therefore  low.  I  shall 
not  be  surprised  if  some  day  all  fiction  that 
interests  in  any  way  is  condemned  because 
the  popular  demand  is  for  fiction  that  inter- 
ests. 

Still  another  factor  is  at  work.  In  cling- 
ing blindly  to  the  classics  as  standards  and 
models  many  fail  to  discriminate  eitlier  in 
recognizing  just  which  qualities  in  a  classic 
entitle  it  to  lasting  place  or  in  allowing  for 
the  difference  between  the  time  in  which  it 
was  written  and  our  own  times.  Some  of  its 
qualities  stand  forever,  but  in  many  cases 
other  qualities  lack  that  permanence  of  ap- 
peal and  are  very  distinctly  tuned  to  its  own 
era.  Is  the  verbosity  of  a  century  or  two  ago, 
or  the  sentimentality  of  the  early  Victorian 
period,  in  key  with  the  spirit  and  genius  of 
this  century?  How  could  it  be  when  our 
whole  civilization  has  rushed  us  into  a  hun- 
dred fold  greater  speed  and  intensity,  sur- 
rounded us  with  a  million  incentives  to 
practical  activity  and  hurry?  Railroads, 
steamships,  trolleys,  autos,  modern  newspa- 
pers, motion-pictures,  telephones,  telegraphs. 


THE   PLACE   OF   ACTION   IN  FICTION  209 

wireless,  electricity  and  machineiy  in  gen- 
eral, these  have  geared  us  to  a  far  faster 
pace.  We  can  no  longer  travel  naturally  in 
stage-coaches.  The  Yicar  of  Wakefield,  al- 
lowing it  its  excellencies,  is  no  longer  geared 
to  living  man.  Therefore,  in  that  respect,  it 
is  not  a  classic,  not  permanent,  should  not  be 
even  a  subconscious  model. 

And  in  the  choosing  of  books  to  be  labeled 
classics  the  natural  inadaptability  of  the  old 
generation  to  the  new,  together  with  the  ten- 
dency to  limit  "literature"  to  products  re- 
fined away  from  elementals  instead  of  merely 
away  from  crudities,  has  still  further  cast 
action  into  disrepute. 

All  in  all,  the  action  story  has  a  pretty  hard 
time  of  it  nowadays  if  it  dares  plead  any 
claim  to  being  literature. 

Fundamental  Tests. — ^Yet,  if  the  test  of  lit- 
erature be  its  permanent  appeal  to  human 
beings,  regardless  of  changing  times,  the  ac- 
tion story  fares  at  least  as  well  as  the  best. 

To  be  permanent  an  appeal  must  reach 
the  only  things  that  are  permanent  and  uni- 
versal in  human  beings,  the  only  permanent 
and  universal  things  are  the  elementary, 
fundamental  ones,  and  "action"  meets  that 


210         FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

test  at  least  as  well  as  anything  else.  Un- 
doubtedly the  race  was  acting  before  it  was 
psychologizing  or  even  talking. 

If  proof  of  this  fundamental  and  everlast- 
ing hold  is  needed,  witness  the  wide-spread, 
undying  demand  for  action  stories.  Also 
note  the  fact  that  most  of  the  classics  that 
have  lived  longest  are  crammed  full  of  ac- 
tion— Homer,  Virgil,  any  of  the  epics  or 
sagas.  No,  they  don't  live  because  of  that 
alone,  but  could  they  have  lived  without  it? 

If  you  think  that,  for  all  their  culture,  the 
most  sophisticated  and  literary  specimens 
among  us  have  really  grown  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  action  appeal,  you  are  much 
mistaken.  Try  them,  when  no  one  is  look- 
ing, with  a  good  action  story,  even  one  un- 
sanctified  as  a  classic.  Scratch  the  skin  and 
you'll  find  red  corpuscles  in  even  the  most 
anemic  blood.  Somewhere  deep  in  each  of 
them  is  the  impulse  to  do,  and  the  admira- 
tion for  doing.  As  children  they  gave  it  nat- 
ural outlet;  has  the  leopard  changed  his 
spots?  Neither  restraint  nor  veneer,  neither 
pose  nor  inactive  living,  can  eradicate  this 
thing  the  child  was  born  with. 

I've    particular   reason    to    speak   on    that 


THE   PLACE  OF   ACTION    IN   FICTION  211 

point.  Adventure  was  founded  with  the  pri- 
mary purpose  of  meeting  this  action  de- 
mand on  the  part  of  the  more  cultured 
classes,  the  people  whose  normal  reading  is 
of  the  "highbrow"  variety  but  who  habit- 
ually turn  at  odd  moments  to  stories  of  ac- 
tion, who  accept  "trashy"  stories  if  no  better 
offer,  but  prefer  stories  sufficiently  well 
done  to  stand  the  test  of  their  sophistication. 
The  fact  that  the  magazine's  secondary  ap- 
peal is  to  those  of  less  literary  sophistication 
and  franker  interest  in  the  elementals  in  no 
way  invalidates  the  primary  aim  or  seems  to 
limit  its  success.  It  is  difficult  to  say  which 
of  these  classes  is  naturally  the  more  given 
to  writing  letters  to  magazines,  but  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  say  which  of  them  is  the  more 
heavily  represented  in  my  correspondence 
basket. 

The  latter,  I  suppose,  depends  upon  where 
you  attempt  to  draw  a  hard  and  fast  line  be- 
tween the  two  classes.  Professional  men  of 
all  classes  form  a  large  part  of  the  audience 
— physicians,  lawyers,  educators,  scientists, 
engineers,  statesmen,  ministers  and  priests; 
letters  from  those  of  undoubted  culture  in 
the   ordinary   sense   of   that   word   are   very 


212        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

strongly  in  evidence;  more  than  once  the 
definite,  concrete  statement  has  been  volun- 
teered that  "I  read  only  two  magazines — 
Atlantic  and  Adventure."  Yet,  personally,  I 
find  it  not  always  easy  to  say  that  this  gen- 
eral class  has  a  keener  sense  for  what  seem 
to  me  the  essential  literary  values.  More  ar- 
ticulate and  with  better  opportunity  for 
comparisons,  yes;  but  with  point  of  view  more 
obscured  by  their  sophistication.  However, 
there  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  common  action 
appeal  to  both  extremes  of  the  audience,  and 
nearly  a  dozen  years  have  eradicated  my 
last  doubt  of  action  response  beneath  even 
the  heaviest  veneer  of  culture. 

Its  audience  is  about  eighty-five  per  cent, 
men,  but  other  action  magazines,  aimed  at 
both  sexes,  have  audiences  nearly  equally 
divided  as  to  sex.  Eliminate  sex  appeal,  the 
love  element,  and,  even  with  women,  action 
appeal  will  take  first  place. 

What  Is  Fiction  Elementally? — Elemen- 
tally a  story  is  a  narrative.  A  narrative  im- 
plies events,  is  a  record  of  action,  not  a  trea- 
tise, a  laboratory  record  or  a  post-mortem. 

The  Rightful  Place  of  Action  in  Literature. 
> — In  addition  to  its  claim  to  place  in  the  best 


THE   PLACE   OF   ACTION    IN   FICTION  213 

literature  because  of  its  fundamental  and 
permanent  appeal  and  in  addition  to  its  be- 
ing the  essence  of  narrative,  there  is  one 
thing  more  to  be  said. 

In  its  crudest  expression  you  may  consign 
it  to  what  depths  you  please,  but  in  its  es- 
sence, in  its  potentialities,  I  challenge  you  to 
deny  it  the  highest  rank  of  all  as  material  of 
fiction.  For  action  is  the  crystallization  of 
psychology.  It  is  the  ultimate,  final  expres- 
sion of  character,  of  all  a  character  has 
thought,  felt  and  said,  of  all  a  character  is  or 
can  be.  Physical  action.  It  need  not  be  ex- 
citing and  adventurous.  It  may  be  expressed 
negatively,  through  repression.  But  psy- 
chology', character,  morals,  what  j^ou  will, 
none  of  these  has  been  really  born  into  the 
world,  has  borne  recognizable  fruit,  until  it 
has  in  some  manner  acted  physically,  or 
taken  phj^sical  shape  through  action. 

It  follows  that,  in  literature  at  its  best,  ac- 
tion must  be  the  perfect,  logical,  inevitable 
and  complete  result  and  register  of  all  psy- 
chology of  the  characters  in  relation  to  all 
circumstances  and  conditions  of  the  story. 
No  other  element  of  literature  has  so  diffi- 
cult a  test  to  meet,  for,  aside  from  its  own  de- 


214        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

mands,  it  must  be  the  final  and  exact  expres- 
sion of  everything  else  in  the  story. 

Yet  the  action  story  is  sweepingly  con- 
demned as  a  type! 

The  Place  of  Action  in  Practise. — Nothing 
can  make  more  plain  the  undiscriminating 
contempt  for  action  as  fiction  material  than 
the  actual  practise  of  most  writers.  Action 
being  in  its  crude  form  the  simplest  material 
as  well  as  the  most  natural,  the  majority  of 
writers  begin  with  it.  Generally,  as  they 
gain  in  skill  they  develop,  at  about  equal  rate, 
the  idea  that  all  action  is  crude  and  that  real 
progress  lies  in  abandoning  it  as  rapidly  as 
possible.  In  many  cases  the  result  is  merely 
the  absence  of  fairly  good  action  stories  and 
the  creation  of  very  sad  but  very  "literary" 
productions.  In  nearly  all  cases  the  cause  of 
the  change  is  due  to  failure  to  understand 
action's  potentialities  and  rightful  place, 
and  the  result  of  that  lack  of  understanding 
is  generally  failure  to  produce  the  real  lit- 
erature intended. 

By  all  means  try  to  rise  above  the  crude 
"Diamond  Dick"  type  of  action  story,  but  be 
sure  you  can  substitute  something  better, 
aside   from  improved  technique.     Better  a 


THE   PL.\CE    OF   ACTION    IN   FICTION  215 

storj'^  of  rather  crude  but  convincing  action 
than  a  miserable  mess  of  half-baked  psy- 
chology and  falsely  glittering  "literai'y  fin- 
ish" whose  chief  proof  of  literary  quality 
must  be  its  freedom  from  physical  action. 
If  you  sincerely  intend  to  do  real  literature, 
get  firmly  into  j'our  head  the  truth  that  ac- 
tion should  be  the  perfect  crystallization  of 
all  else  in  your  story  and  then  use  as  much 
or  as  little  of  it  as  is  needed  for  that  crystal- 
lization. If  you  try  that,  j^ou  Avill  get  an  ex- 
treme test  of  all  the  literary  ability  you  can 
summon,  and  if  you  succeed,  you  will  have 
attained  what  only  the  comparative  few  are 
capable  of  attaining.  Even  to  make  a  start 
you  must  rid  yourself  of  the  absurd  idea 
that  action  per  se  is  unliterary. 

Popular  Demand. — Since  the  Great  War 
popular  demand  for  action  fiction  is  strong- 
er than  ever,  despite  the  strong  antipathy  for 
material  directly  connected  with  it  and  de- 
spite a  definite  reaction  in  favor  of  quiet, 
peacefulness  and  things  spiritual. 

If  it's  popular  demand  you're  considering, 
consider  this:  Real  life,  perhaps  now  more 
than  ever  before,  consists  very  largely  of  re- 
straints  and  inhibitions.     Human   nature  is 


216        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

just  as  human  as  it  ever  was — there  are  just 
as  many  things  in  it  to  be  restrained  and  in- 
hibited. And,  underneath  all  our  civiliza- 
tion, we're  just  as  tired  of  having  to  do  it — 
probably  more  so,  since  our  civilization  is 
more  civilized  and  therefore  more  exacting 
than  its  predecessors.  If  we  can't  escape 
from  the  fetters  in  real  life,  can't  be  free  to 
follow  our  undoubted  impulses,  as  readers 
we'll  all  the  more  welcome  a  chance  for  vi- 
carious freedom. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ADAPTATION   OF   STYLE   TO   MATERIAL 

If  the  theory  suggested  by  the  chapter 
head  had  not  withstood  the  test  of  ten  years 
and  the  judgment  of  a  number  of  people 
whose  judgment  is  worth  having,  I  should 
not  venture  to  present  it  here  even  in  brief 
space,  for  if  carried  into  practise  it  would 
more  or  less  revolutionize  the  art  of  fiction. 
Perhaps,  too,  it  has  already  been  advanced, 
though  I  have  never  happened  to  run  across 
it  or  to  hear  of  it  through  others. 

In  an  earlier  chapter  was  the  statement 
that  the  art  process  of  fiction  consists  of 
three  steps — Material,  Artist  and  Reader  and 
that  the  third  step  fails  to  get  anj^thing  ap- 
proaching due  consideration  in  either  theory 
or  practise.  This  book  is  largely  an  attempt 
to  emphasize  this  fact  and  a  plea  that  the 
reader  be  given  greater  importance  in  the 
teaching  of  fiction  writing. 
217 


218        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

I 

While  working  out  and  testing  this  theory 
of  the  reader's  place  in  creative  work  I  was 
testing  out  also  another  theory  which  seemed 
to  have  little  connection  with  the  first  and, 
with  my  perspective  ruined  by  specializa- 
tion, it  was  only  a  year  or  two  ago  the  almost 
self-evident  fact  dawned  upon  me  that  the 
two  fitted  neatly  into  each  other  and  consti- 
tuted a  complete  theoiy  of  the  art  process. 
Until  then  each  had  been  locked  away  in  its 
own  little  compartment,  there  being  no  intent 
of  building  up  a  rounded  out  whole. 

While  the  first  theory  dealt  with  neglect  of 
the  reader  in  the  general  art  process,  the  oth- 
er centered  on  the  neglect  of  material  as  an 
influence  on  style.  In  other  words,  writers 
seeined  too  concentrated  on  themselves,  the 
Artists,  in  the  creative  process  and  too  neg- 
lectful of  the  two  other  steps,  Material  and 
Reader. 

Rigidity  of  Style  as  to  Material. — To  pre- 
sent the  matter  briefly,  all  that  an  author  has 
to  convey  to  you  comes  to  you  through  a  sin- 
gle medium  which  we  call  his  style  and 
which  in  practise  is  singularly  inelastic  in  re- 
lation to  the  great  variety  of  things  that  must 
pass   through  it.     Take  Maurice   Hewlitt  in 


ADAPTATION  OF  STYLE  TO  MATERIAL    219 

his  earlier  daj^s  when  his  accentuated  and 
highly  individuahzcd  style  make  him  a  good 
example.  Through  that  one  unchanging 
style  had  to  come  to  you  tragedy,  comedy, 
pathos,  contemplation,  action,  love,  hate,  pa- 
tience, anger,  romance,  satire.  All  the  gamut 
of  human  emotions  in  the  material  must  be 
crushed  into  uniformity  of  expression  before 
it  could  reach  you,  losing  of  its  own  essence 
in  the  process.  All  must  be  translated  into 
the  one  inflexible  rhythm  and  jingle  of  that 
one  style — standardized,  as  it  w^ere,  out  of 
much  of  their  individualitj'^  and  strength. 
Such  a  loss  is  a  calamity,  and,  I  think,  to  a 
marked  degree  unnecessaiy. 

In  poetry  the  need  of  guarding  against  this 
loss  is  definitely  recognized,  if  not  as  a  broad 
principle,  at  least  in  adaptation  of  sound  to 
sense  and  in  selection  of  the  metrical  form 
best  adapted  to  a  given  theme.  Why  should 
it  not  be  at  least  equally  guarded  against  in 
prose?  Many  of  the  distinguishing  qualities 
of  poetry  as  opposed  to  prose  vary  with  dif- 
ferent races  and  with  the  march  of  time.  Of 
the  universal,  permanent  distinguishing 
qualities  are  there  any  that  should  differen- 
tiate poetry  from  prose  as  to  the  importance 


220         FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

of  the  Material's  influence  on  style  in  trans- 
mission of  Material  to  Reader  through 
Artist? 

That  there  are  already  in  our  fiction  occa- 
sional and  sporadic  cases  of  this  adaptation 
of  style  to  material  shows  the  soundness  of 
the  theoi-y,  for  these  examples  are  evidently 
not  for  the  most  part  the  result  of  studied  ef- 
fort but  instances  in  which  the  writer's  art  is 
sufficiently  developed  to  break  through  his 
usual  stj-^le  and  spontaneously  adapt  expres- 
sion to  the  thing  expressed. 

There  are  even  stray  rules  pointing  in  this 
direction,  but  chiefly  for  dialogue  where  a 
demand  for  adaptation  makes  itself  felt 
through  the  need  of  making  a  character  ex- 
press his  emotions  as  a  real  person  would  ex- 
press them  in  real  life.  For  example,  the  use 
of  short  sharp  sentences  and  simple  Anglo- 
Saxon  words  in  most  cases  of  emotional 
stress. 

But  if  you  wish  an  example  of  what  adap- 
tation of  style  to  material  is  capable  of  ac- 
complishing if  used  as  a  fixed  and  general 
principle  of  composition,  turn  to  Shake- 
peare,  forgetting  the  non-essential  fact  that 
he  is  a  poet. 


ADAPTATION    OF    STYLE   TO    MATERIAL  221 

Style  in  Relation  to  Material. — Style  is  the 
expression  of  material  through  the  artist,  of 
material  as  transmuted  through  his  individ- 
uality. He  is,  if  you  like,  a  part  of  his  ma- 
terial, but,  on  that  basis,  he  divides  cleanly 
into  two  parts,  one  of  them,  the  artist,  ex- 
pressing the  other,  the  material.  What  I  ob- 
ject to  is  the  attempt  to  express  through  a 
single,  inelastic  style  all  of  his  material,  all 
of  himself  as  material,  or  all  of  himself  as 
artist.  There  is  no  one  style  that  can  even 
approximate  perfect  expression  of  all  that  is 
in  the  world. 

Do  tragedy,  comedy,  pathos,  love,  anger, 
excitement,  calm  speak  the  same  language 
in  real  life?  Must  not  human  art  at  least  ap- 
proximate human  life  if  only  by  a  kind  of 
symbolism?  What  writer,  or  any  other  hu- 
man being,  can  approximate  expression  of 
all  of  himself  through  the  intoning  of  any 
one  single  style?  Does  he  go  from  cradle  to 
grave  in  one  single  chord?  Does  he  not  re- 
spond to  emotions,  his  own  or  other  people's, 
as  a  harp  to  hand?  And  yet,  God  save  the 
mark,  when  he  comes  to  write  he  calmly 
tries  to  squeeze  death  and  all  living  into  a 
single  monotone! 


222        FUNDAMENTALS   OF  FICTION   WRITING 

Is  literature  merely  the  click  of  a  tele- 
graph key,  crushing  all  juice  from  life  to  re- 
duce all  life  to  its  own  infle^xibie  code  and 
flat  rhythm?  Is  an  author  merely  a  funnel 
through  which  all  the  juice  of  life  must 
emerge  at  the  small  end  in  a  single  thin 
stream? 

Demands  of  Unity. — Art's  demand  for 
unity  is  fundamental  and  not  to  be  denied, 
but  what  has  been  our  idea  of  unity  of  style? 
Merely  to  whistle  one  note  and  call  it  a  satis- 
factory expression  of  the  author  and  the  uni- 
verse. It  can  not  be.  And  to  attain  this  one 
note  in  a  story  we  place  no  limit  to  the  vio- 
lence needed  to  make  all  human  emotions 
give  up  their  own  individuality  in  order  to 
be  in  key.  It  is  well  enough,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
but  it  is  only  a  first  crude  step.  It  is  time 
we  took  a  step  beyond. 

Can  any  artistic  demand  for  unity  be  based 
on  any  elemental  more  fundamental  and  in- 
disputable than  the  irreconcilable  difference 
of  opposite  human  emotions? 

Let  the  author  mold  his  material  to  his  In- 
dividuality, unify  it  throu'gh  himself,  express 
it  through  his  individual  style.  Let  him  mold 
his  material  into  unity  around  what  single 


ADAPTATION    OF    STYLE    TO    MATERIAL  223 

thought  or  emotion  he  please  hefore  he 
passes  it  through  his  style.  But  let  him  make 
that  style,  not*?i  single  inflexible  note,  but  a 
lune,  a  tune  that  sings  high  or  low,  loud  or 
soft,  in  majors  or  minors,  harmony  or  dis- 
cord, fast  or  slow,  expressing  in  delicate  re- 
sponse the  varying  emotions  of  its  song 
through  the  singer,  itself  a  unity  and  an  ex- 
pression and  in  each  of  its  parts  a  unity  and 
expression  of  that  part. 

Let  Your  Style  Respond. — If  you  are  sin- 
cere in  your  work,  if  you  really  feel  your  ma- 
terial and  if  j^ou  are  not  so  ridden  and  op- 
pressed by  rules  that  you  can  not  be  natural, 
your  style  will  of  its  own  accord  tend  to  at- 
tune itself  to  what  it  expresses.  Give  it  the 
chance,  encourage  it  to  do  so.  Let  no  rule  of 
misinterpreted  unity  force  it  into  one  monot- 
onous, inflexible  note  impervious  to  all  the 
emotions  of  the  material  that  strive  to  break 
through  into  expressions  of  themselves  so 
that  they  themselves  can  reach  the  reader  in 
something  of  the  fulness  and  color  of  reality 
instead  of  in  the  shape  of  cold  line  drawings. 

Let  your  tunc  follow  the  moods  of  what  it 
sings  about.  If  in  your  material  comes  trag- 
edy  after   a   grayness   of   every-day   affairs. 


224         FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION    WRITING 

will  your  song  ripple  on  in  unchanged  meas- 
ure? Why  not  let  the  tragedy  come  through 
into  the  song  itself?  Let  each  mood  of  your 
material  come  through  into  your  song  and 
to  your  reader.  If  there  follows  a  relief 
scene  of  comedy,  how  much  of  comedy  will 
fail  to  reach  the  reader  if  it  fails  to  tinge 
even  the  medium  of  transmission? 

If  you  are  not  musician  enough  to  compose 
the  various  elements  of  material  into  your 
style-tune,  at  least  you  can  approximate  by 
the  use  of  notes  you  know  produce  the  gen- 
eral effect  and  are  keyed  to  the  mood  you 
desire  to  reproduce  in  your  reader — rhythm 
changed  to  smoothness  or  harshness,  sen- 
tence-length changed  to  that  generally  used 
in  real  life  for  the  expression  of  that  mood, 
words  chosen  for  slowness  and  weight  or 
speed  and  lightness,  skilful  use  of  adaptation 
of  sound  to  sense,  few  words  for  speed  of  ac- 
tion, many  for  waiting  and  suspense. 

The  Need  of  Emphasizing  the  Relation  of 
Style  to  Material. — All  these  things  are  done 
— a  little — by  a  few.  These  few  are  of  the 
real  artists.  It  is  because  they  are  real  ar- 
tists that  their  material  finds  expression  in. 
their  style.     It  is  not  because  responsiveness 


ADAPTATION    OF    STYLE   TO    MATERIAL  225 

of  style  to  material  is  systematically  taught. 
It  should  be,  if  American  fictionists  are  to 
attain  the  development  their  natural  advan- 
tages make  possible  to  them.  It  is  the  art  of 
artists  that  most  deserves  teaching  so  far  as 
it  can  be  taught,  particularly  if  it  is  so  potent 
that  it  pushes  its  way  without  encourage- 
ment and  against  heavy  odds  of  hindering 
rules. 

I  have  only  outlined  the  need  and  the  pos- 
sibilities and,  I  fear,  made  a  poor  case  of  it. 
But  some  day  some  one  else  will  give  it  full 
and  convincing  presentation — if,  indeed, 
some  one  has  not  already  done  so  outside  my 
knowledge.  In  any  case,  there  lies  a  line  of 
development  that  sooner  or  later  fiction  is 
bound  to  follow. 

Whether  you  believe  it  or  not,  give  it  slow 
consideration  in  your  mind.  Even  if  you  de- 
cide against  it  in  the  end,  the  considering  of 
it  will  teach  you  more  concerning  style  than 
you  are  likely  to  get  from  the  study  of  other 
people's  rules. 

Of  that  I  am  very  sure.  In  your  case  yon 
are  the  most  important  authority.  Appeal  to 
that  authority  and  see  that  it  gives  judgment, 
judgment  reasoned  out,  by  you,  from  funda- 


226        FUNDAMENTALS   OF   FICTION   WRITING 

mentals.  Let  no  rules  by  other  people  im- 
pose themselves  until  you  have  reasoned  out 
their  worth.  Keep  and  develop  your  own  in- 
dividuality. 

And  the  one  best  way  to  learn  to  write  is 
to — write. 

I  hereby  absolve  you  from  all  rules  in  this 
book  except  such  rules  as  warn  against  rules. 

THE  END 


APPENDIX 

YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS   AND  THE  EDITORS 

To  NEW  writers,  and  to  most  old  ones,  a 
magazine  editorial  office  is,  among  other 
things,  a  mystery,  not  the  least  mysterious  of 
its  contents  being  the  editors.  It  is,  of  course, 
no  more  mysterious  than  the  office  of  any 
other  specialized  business,  and  editors  are 
merely  one  small  class  among  many  classes 
doing  various  kinds  of  specialized  work. 
Certainly  there  seems  no  justification  for  the 
traditional  awe  in  which  editors  are  held  by 
so  great  a  majority  of  people.  This  awe  is 
undeniably  present  and  does  more  than  a  lit- 
tle to  prevent  more  comfortable  relations  be- 
tween writers  and  readers  on  one  hand  and 
editors  on  the  other.  Partly  it  is  a  "hang- 
over" from  a  past  age  when  editors  better 
earned  an  atmosphere  of  awe  as  individual 
molders  of  public  opinion,  and  partly  it  is 
due  to  people's  insistence  on  regarding  with 
a   peculiar   and   undiscriminating   reverence 

227 


228  APPENDIX 

anybody  or  any  thing  connected,  however  re- 
motely, with  "literature." 

It  shouldn't  be  necessary  to  say  so,  but,  if 
the  testimony  of  one  of  them  can  be  accepted 
by  those  who  persist  in  considering  them 
something  very  much  above — or  below — the 
normal,  editors  are  just  ordinary  humans  no 
different  in  essentials  from  any  other  people 
of  ordinary  education.  As  in  any  collection 
of  people,  there  are  all  kinds  among  us,  even 
those  who  breathe  a  rarified  atmosphere  and 
hold  themselves  superior  to  their  fellows, 
but,  heavens,  think  of  waiters  you  have 
known !  While  as  to  barbers  and  policemen — 

Just  humans,  whose  job  happens  to  be  that 
of  trying  to  choose  from  many  manuscripts 
those  the  reading  public  will  like  best.  If 
the  manuscripts  they  handle  happen  to  be 
fact  articles  as  well  as  fiction,  there  is  also 
the  job  of  selecting  with  an  idea  of  educa- 
tion, or  of  advancing  some  cause  or  principle 
advocated  by  the  particular  magazine,  but 
even  here  there  is  also  the  job  of  pleasing  the 
reading  public.  Besides  that,  if  the  editor 
has  a  plain  or  social  conscience,  the  desire  to 
leave  people  the  better,  rather  than  the 
worse,  for  their  reading.    That's  all. 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS   AND  THE   EDITORS         229 

A  word  more  about  that  job,  so  that  we  ed- 
itors may  not  seem  quite  so  mysterious,  in- 
consistent, arbitrarj^  and  other  things  as  we 
do  at  present.  Take  the  editor  of  any  fic- 
tion magazine — or  any  magazine,  for  that 
matter.  So  long  as  he  works  on  that  partic- 
ular magazine  his  job  is,  generally  speaking, 
not  to  test  a  manuscript  by  its  general  lit- 
erary or  its  general  magazine  merits,  nor  to 
choose  according  to  his  own  personal  tastes, 
but,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  to  choose  first 
according  to  its  suitability  to  that  particular 
magazine.  If  John  Jones  is  editor  of  magazine 
B  and  then  becomes  editor  of  magazine 
C,  his  manuscript  tests  will  change  instant- 
ly. He  will  accept  some  stories  he  rejected 
for  B  and  reject  some  others  that  he 
would  gladly  have  taken  for  B.  That  is,  if 
John  is  a  good  editor  and  has  not  delib- 
erately taken  up  the  task  of  making  G  as 
much  like  B  as  possible. 

Each  fiction  magazine  aims  at  a  special 
type  of  reader,  or  a  special  group  of  readers. 
Therefore  it  tries  to  individualize  itself  in 
such  manner  as  to  get  and  hold  the  interest 
of  that  type.  Its  "policy"  may  undergo 
changes,  but  it  is  always  a  more  or  less  in- 


230  APPENDIX 

dividualized  one.     What  is   one  magazine's 
meat  may  be  another  magazine's  poison. 

There  are  other  reasons  wliy  the  rejection 
of  a  manuscript  is  "not  necessarily  a  reflec- 
tion upon  its  merits."  It  may  fall  fairly 
within  the  individualized  field  of  a  mag- 
azine and  be  recognized  by  the  editor  as  of 
entirely  sufficient  merit,  yet  be  sent  back.  A 
grocer  or  a  druggist  or  a  delicatessen  man 
acts  exactly  the  same  way.  If  one  hundred 
cans  of  corn  is  the  number  a  grocer  is  justi- 
fied by  sales  in  carrying  on  his  inventory 
and  he  already  has  one  hundred  cans  of  corn, 
he  doesn't  buy  any  more  cans.  If  an  editor 
estimates  that  his  readers'  demand  justifies 
him  in  buying  about  fifty  love-stories,  five 
tragic  stories,  ten  business  stories,  etc.,  per 
year  and  he  already  has  in  stock  the  full 
quota  of  each  that  should  be  on  hand  at  any 
one  time,  he,  like  the  grocer,  buys  no  more  of 
these  types. 

Length,  as  well  as  type,  is  also  a  factor 
that  an  editor  must  consider  in  the  light  of 
his  inventory. 

Of  course,  there  are  all  kinds  of  exceptions 
in  applying  the  inventory  test  to  manu- 
scripts, for  stories  are  not  standardized  like 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS         231 

cans  of  corn  nor  do  all  magazines  adhere  to 
so  rigid  a  basis  of  selection.  Then,  too,  there 
is  the  fact  that  some  types  are,  permanently 
or  temporarily,  difficult  to  secure  and,  when 
sufficiently  well  executed,  are  likely  to  be 
seized  upon  at  any  time.  Really  good  hu- 
morous stories,  being  notoriously  difficult  to 
find,  would  hardly  be  rejected  even  by  a 
magazine  with  its  normal  supply  of  humor- 
ous stories  already  in  the  safe. 

Also,  manuscripts  come  in  waves,  not  only 
as  to  number  but  as  to  setting,  material, 
theme,  and  so  on.  For  six  months,  a  year, 
three  years,  there  may  be,  for  example,  an 
oversupply  of  stories  of  diplomatic  life,  ru- 
ral stories,  stories  laid  in  Latin  America,  and 
a  dearth  of  stories  of  golfing,  stories  of  olden 
times,  sea  stories.  By  the  end  of  a  year  or 
two  the  situation  may  be  completely  re- 
versed on  any  or  all  of  these  types.  In  most 
cases  the  change  from  dearth  to  plenty  or 
vice  versa  is  without  warning  or  discernible 
cause.  After  being  caught  by  a  few  dearths 
an  editor  is  likely  to  stock  up  with  a  reserve 
on  types  that  have  shown  themselves  subject 
to  fluctuation  in  supply.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  may  decide  that  writers  as  a  whole,  in 


232  APPENDIX 

their  fancy  or  lack  of  fancy  for  a  type,  are 
a  fairly  safe  index  to  the  fancy  of  the  public 
in  general. 

In  any  case,  many  factors  besides  merit, 
recognized  or  unrecognized,  and  besides  bad 
judgment  by  editors,  decide  the  fate  of  man- 
uscripts. On  the  other  hand,  most  manu- 
scripts are  rejected  for  the  all  sufficient  rea- 
son that  they  do  lack  sufficient  merit. 

Some  ideas  are  prevalent  that  seem  worth 
meeting. 

A  "pull"  is  seldom  of  service  in  gaining 
acceptance  for  manuscripts;  of  none  at  all 
so  far  as  my  observation  extends,  and  I  can 
not  now  recall,  even  froin  hearsa3%  any  case 
in  which  "pull"  took  the  place  of  merit. 
Doubtless  there  are  such  instances,  but,  eth- 
ics aside,  progress  through  "pull"  is  not 
worth  a  writer's  practical  consideration. 
Many  beginners  believe  they  will  get  a  better 
hearing  for  their  stories  if  they  present  them 
in  person  instead  of  mailing  them.  It's  an 
editor's  business  to  select  manuscripts  ac- 
cording to  their  values,  not  according  to  his 
opinion  of  their  authors,  and  I  think  most 
editors  do  so.  If  he  is  subject  to  personal  in- 
fluence, don't  forget  that  you  may  make  an 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS        233 

unfavorable,  instead  of  a  favorable,  impres- 
sion. In  any  case  you're  taking  from  him 
time  that  he  probably  needs  badly  and  is  not 
likely  to  be  happy  over  losing.  What  you 
have  to  say  to  him  can  almost  always  be  said 
equally  well  by  letter,  perhaps  far  better.  A 
letter  takes  less  of  his  time  and — he  can 
choose  his  time  for  reading  it. 

I  know  of  no  fiction  magazine  that  has  a 
"regular  staff"  of  writers  in  the  sense  of  its 
having  no  opening  for  new  writers.  Often  a 
magazine  comes  to  depend  for  the  bulk  of 
its  supply  upon  a  comparative  few  who  have 
proved  themselves  best  able  to  provide  that 
suppl}',  but  that  does  not  mean  that  it  hasn't 
a  welcome  for  others. 

The  oft-heard  wail  that  "a  new  writer  has 
no  chance  with  editors"  is  merely  sillj''. 
Weren't  all  the  "old"  writers  once  new? 
How%  pray,  did  they  gain  their  first  footing? 
In  one  sense,  to  be  sure,  new  writers  have  lit- 
tle chance  with  editors  for  the  sweet  and 
simple  reason  that  a  majority  of  beginners 
haven't  sufficient  merit  to  earn  them  a 
chance  with  any  competent,  fair-minded 
judge.  Some  of  them  will  never  have.  Some 
have  not  yet  developed  and  are  worthless  to 


234  APPENDIX 

magazines  until  they  do.  If  a  writer  can't  de- 
velop unless  encouraged  by  acceptances  be- 
fore he  has  developed,  he  almost  surely 
hasn't  in  him  the  ability  to  develop  in  any 
circumstances. 

Don't  be  discouraged  by  rejections.  They 
are  merely  the  usual  thing.  Tliey  only  class 
your  manuscript  among  the  eighty-five  to 
ninety-nine  per  cent,  that  every  magazine 
turns  back.  Along  with  yours  many  man- 
uscripts of  successful  or  even  famous  au- 
thors are  rejected,  and  some  of  these  reject- 
ed stories,  possibly  yours  among  them,  will 
be  accepted  by  other  magazines.  The  only 
disgrace  is  in  being  discouraged.  If,  instead 
of  the  usual  printed  slip,  you  get  a  note  from 
one  of  the  staff,  be  glad,  for  your  manuscript 
has  raised  itself  above  the  others  and  earned 
attention  for  its  merits;  jj^our  rejection  is 
really  a  step  forward — the  big  first  step. 

Often  the  beginner's  discouragement  is 
due  to  his  trying  his  wares  on  the  wrong 
market.  Would  you  try  to  sell  a  lady's  slip- 
pers to  a  civil  engineer,  a  soldier's  boots  to  a 
dainty  dame  of  fashion,  a  policeman's  bro- 
gans  to  a  child?  Yet  that  is  exactly  what  so 
many  of  you  try  to  do  with  manuscripts.     I 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS         235 

am,  though  an  editor  myself,  quite  incapable 
of  saying  just  which  magazines  will  buy 
which  manuscripts,  for  an  infinite  variety  of 
factors  and  circumstances  are  involved,  but 
the  total  ignorance  of  magazine  markets  dis- 
played by  many  beginners  can  be  due  to 
nothing  but  failure  to  give  the  field  even  a 
rudimentary  consideration  before  trying  to 
master  it. 

The  elementary  rules  for  the  actual  sub- 
mission of  manuscripts  have  been  printed 
thousands  of  times,  but  the  need  for  them 
abides : 

Every  manuscript  should  be  typewritten. 
No  matter  how  good  handwriting  ma}^  be,  it 
imposes  a  heavy  handicap  on  any  man- 
uscript, for,  in  comparison  with  other  man- 
uscripts in  typewriting,  its  story  can  unfold 
only  on  leaden  feet  even  to  the  most  patient, 
kindly  and  self-sacrificing  editor. 

Double-space  the  typewriting.  It  reads 
more  easily,  allows  you  sufficient  space  to 
make  your  own  alterations  and  corrections 
without  messing  parts  of  your  story  into  il- 
legibility, and,  if  the  manuscript  is  bought, 
gives  space  for  editing  it  as  copy  for  the 
printer  to  follow. 


236  APPENDIX 

Write  on  only  one  side  of  the  paper.  This 
custom  is  so  firmly  established  that  it's  folly 
to  violate  it  and  almost  no  one  does.  There 
are  plenty  of  reasons  for  the  custom,  but  its 
mere  existence  is  practical  reason  enough. 

Leave  a  fairly  wide  margin  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  each  sheet — as  a  kindness  to  the 
editor  in  case  your  manuscript  is  bought  and 
to  the  compositor  who  must  read  and  set 
what  you  have  written  and  the  editor  edited. 

Type  j'our  name  and  address  on  the  first 
page  of  your  manuscript.  For  common  • 
sense  reasons. 

Number  your  pages.  Consecutively 
straight  through  from  beginning  to  end.  Es- 
pecially if  you  hope  for  any  chance  of  de- 
tailed criticism  from  the  editor. 

Unless  your  manuscript  is  to  be  returned 
express  collect,  enclose  stamped,  self-ad- 
dressed envelope  of  sufficient  size  and 
strength,  or  at  least  sufficient  postage.  As  a 
matter  of  common  honesty.  A  surprising 
number  of  writers  are  not  honest  in  this 
respect. 

If  you  write  to  the  editor  when  you  submit 
a  manuscript,  see  that  the  letter  is  enclosed 
with  the  manuscript,  not  sent  under  separate 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS         237 

cover.  If  your  idea  in  writing  is  to  further 
the  chances  of  your  storj^  you're  going  about 
it  in  a  poor  way  if  j^ou  add  to  the  editor's 
troubles  by  making  him  handle  your  case  in 
two  parts  instead  of  one.  Or  by  making  him 
read  your  autobiography  in  full. 

Several  things  will  help  toward  a  better 
understanding  of  the  editorial  attitude  to- 
ward manuscripts.  First,  tell  me,  did  you 
ever  know  a  merchant  to  work  hard  day 
after  day  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  buying 
stock  for  his  customers'  demands?  No,  the 
editor  desires  to  buy;  he  spends  his  time  try- 
ing to  get  stories,  not  to  avoid  them.  When 
he  finds  one  that  meets  his  needs  he  rejoices. 
A  minority  of  magazines  seek  first  of  all  for 
authors  with  "big  names,"  because  of  the  fol- 
lowing they  command  among  the  reading 
public,  but  the  editors  of  even  these  are  in- 
clined to  pat  themselves  on  the  back  when 
they  "find"  a  brand-new  author  of  merit. 

Second,  to  balance  the  above,  remember 
that  your  manuscript  is  merely  one  among 
thousands  that  come  to  an  editor. 

There  is  a  wide-spread  feeling  that  many 
manuscripts  are  rejected  only  because  they 
arc  read,  not  by  the  editor  himself,  but  by 


238  APPENDIX 

some  assistant.  There  are  two  "schools"  of 
manuscript-reading.  One  method  is  to  let 
the  most  inexperienced  readers  weed  out  the 
bulk  of  submitted  manuscripts,  thus  saving 
the  more  experienced  readers  much  time. 
The  other  method  reverses  the  process;  a 
more  experienced  reader  does  the  first  sort- 
ing. The  latter  seems  to  be  gaining  ground; 
personally  I  believe  in  it  strongly.  My  own 
experience  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  sit- 
uation. For  years  every  manuscript  came  to 
my  hands  first.  As  their  number  increased 
this  became  a  physical  impossibility.  Man- 
uscript-reading is  only  one  of  an  editor's 
many  duties,  a  fact  that  many  lose  sight  of. 
At  present  from  one  to  two  working  days  per 
week  is  probably  a  generous  estimate  of  the 
time  I  give  to  manuscript-reading.  The  read- 
ing is  done  mostly  in  bits — in  the  evenings, 
on  trains,  in  days  spent  at  home  for  the  pur- 
pose. In  the  office  itself  I  can't  get  time  to 
read  a  dozen  manuscripts  a  year.  And  much 
of  the  otlier  kinds  of  work  also  is  done  out- 
side. Many  other  editors  are  in  similar  case. 
But  in  delegating  the  bulk  of  the  work  the 
most  experienced  editor  on  the  staff  is  the 
one  who  first  reads  the  stories  from  "un- 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS         239 

knowns."  Except  in  cases  of  appeal,  stories 
by  our  "regular"  writers  do  not  pass  tlirough 
his  hands  at  all,  but  go  first  to  editors  of  less 
experience  and  from  them  to  me. 

Some  magazines  have  a  special  "fiction 
editor,"  who  is  often  the  court  of  final  ap- 
peal, may  have  been  chosen  by  the  editor  as 
superior  to  himself  in  this  branch  of  edito- 
rial w^ork  and  may  or  may  not  be  the  first  to 
read  manuscripts. 

The  thing  to  remember  is  that  if  the  editor 
delegates  the  first  reading  it  does  not  follow 
that  he  minimizes  its  importance  and  he  gen- 
erally takes  care  to  put  it  into  as  capable 
hands  as  he  can.  Remember,  also,  the  gen- 
eral rule  is  that  a  first  reader  is  instructed 
to  mark  all  doubtful  cases  for  a  second  hear- 
ing; also  that  it's  to  his  own  personal  interest 
to  "find"  every  good  story  he  can  if  he 
wishes  to  hold  his  job. 

How  much  of  a  manuscript  does  a  reader 
read?  A  sentence,  a  paragraph,  a  few  pages, 
maybe  all  of  it.  Unfair  and  inefficient  not 
to  read  all  of  each?  My  personal  opinion  is 
that  manuscript-reading  is  one  of  the  things 
that  can  be  learned  by  experience  only.  But, 
having  the  experience,  an  editor  can  reject 


240  APPENDIX 

the  "culls"  very  swiftly  and  with  a  good  deal 
of  sureness.  He  can  tell  all  the  hack  plots  at 
a  glance,  knows  the  kinds  of  opening  that 
are  never  followed  by  a  good  story,  can  tell 
in  a  few  sentences  or  paragraphs  whether  a 
writer  has  sufficient  skill  in  handling  his 
tools  to  be  able  to  turn  out  an  acceptable 
story  and — has  at  his  finger-ends  all  the 
kinds  of  material,  setting,  plot,  treatment, 
etc.,  that  his  particular  magazine  does  not 
use.  If  in  doubt,  he  reads  further  or  sam- 
ples it  out  here  and  there  and  glances  at  the 
end.  If  still  in  doubt,  he  reads  it  all.  Some- 
times knowing  the  story  to  be  unusable,  he 
reads  it  all  because  the  author's  possibilities 
are  worth  serious  consideration  even  if  the 
otory  in  hand  isn't. 

As  to  the  final  reading  I  think,  from  what 
data  I  chance  to  have,  that  I'm  not  in  accord 
with  the  majority  custom.  When  I'm  famil- 
iar with  a  writer's  work  and  he's  fairly 
steady,  the  endorsement  of  the  man  who 
passed  it  over  to  me  is  often  sufficient,  since 
he  too  knows  that  writer's  work  and  would 
have  noted  any  let-down  or  doubtful  points. 
In  other  cases,  sometimes  a  few  pages — with 
maybe  a  glance  at  the  remainder — is  suffi- 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS         241 

cient  for  rejection,  unless  the  other  editor, 
having  read  it  all,  has  voted  for  it  or  makes 
the  point  that  we  can  help  the  writer  revise 
it  into  suitable  shape.  But  what  I  do  read  I 
read  word  for  word  page  after  page  until  I 
find  definite  cause  for  rejection,  for  I  can't 
believe  that  I  can  judge  from  the  reading 
public's  point  of  view  unless  I  read  as  I  think 
most  of  the  reading  public  reads — word  for 
word.  Maybe  other  editors  can,  but,  at  least 
in  most  cases,  I  can't. 

But  be  sure  of  this — whatever  their  read- 
ing methods,  editors  are  trying  to  find  good 
stories,  not  to  reject  them. 

Many  magazines  contract  in  advance  for 
stories  by  well-known  writers,  buying  sight 
unseen  and  trusting  wholly  to  the  writer's 
steadiness,  conscientiousness  and  popular 
following.  In  some  cases  this  is  perfectly 
safe;  in  others  decidedly  not.  It  means,  es- 
sentially, that  the  writer  has  left  the  merit 
system  and  works  on  a  sure-thing  basis, 
which  is  not  good  for  most  writers. 

Do  not  decide  that  your  story  was  rejected 
because  an  editor  read  it  when  he  was  tired 
or  his  liver  was  out  of  order.  Editors  get 
tired  and  their  livers  are  as  undcpcndable  as 


242  APPENDIX 

anybody's  liver,  but  they  know  this  and 
make  allowances  accordingly.  In  fact,  it's  a 
pretty  safe  rule  to  decide  that  your  story  was 
rejected  for  lack  of  merit  or  for  unsuitability 
to  the  particular  magazine.  If  not  convinced 
of  the  former  reason,  keep  sending  your 
story  to  other  magazines.  Many  a  story  has 
been  rejected  by  five,  ten,  twenty,  fifty  mag- 
azines and  yet  found  an  acceptance,  perhaps 
by  a  better  magazine  than  some  of  those  that 
rejected  it,  though  the  majority  of  man- 
uscripts submitted  probably  never  find  a 
taker. 

Oh,  yes,  the  editor  is  fallible  like  every- 
body else  including  yourself.  But  after  all 
he's  an  expert  of  experience  in  his  own  par- 
ticular line,  experience  has  given  him  a  per- 
spective you  lack,  and  he  has  an  understand- 
ing of  his  magazine's  particular  needs  that 
no  outsider  can  have.  In  the  long  run  you'll 
make  progress  faster  if,  allowing  for  the  fal- 
libility of  the  genus  editor,  you  decide  to  ac- 
cept his  verdict  as  more  dependable  than 
that  of  your  friends  or  yourself.  Anyhow, 
there's  more  to  be  gained  from  looking  for 
weak  places  in  your  work  than  from  striving 
to  prove  its  excellencies  by  argument. 


YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS  AND  THE  EDITORS         213 

This  is  a  rambling,  hop-skip-and-junip 
chapter,  but  there  are  a  thousand  little 
points  that  bob  up  one  after  the  other  and 
choosing  among  them  is  haphazard  work  at 
best.  All  I've  tried  to  do  is  to  give  you  a 
sketchy  idea  of  editorial  offices  and  their 
working  so  that  sending  manuscripts  to  them 
will  not  be  quite  so  much  like  sending  them 
out  into  a  hostile  unknown. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Academic  methods  of  teach- 
ing fiction:  5,  io-4,  38-9, 
42-4,  51,  108,  134-5,  154-5, 
168-9,    171-2,   180-96. 

Action:  96,  129-30,  135-7, 
20s- 1 6. 

Ambiguit}':  See  Words. 

Art  Process,  The:  17-25, 
217-26. 

Art:  17-21,  127-32,  217-26. 

Beginning     a     storj':     75-6, 

167-9,  176. 
Big  words :  See  Words. 
Brackets:  See  Frames. 
Brevity:  87,  113-7,  147- 
Chapter     headings:     iio-i, 

119. 
Characters:  76,  168-9,  170-1, 

175-6,     179.       {See     also 

Characterization,     Proper 

Names.) 
Characterization:  loo-i, 

1 13-4,  1 1 7-8,  127-32,  132-9, 

14375,  170-81,  212-3. 
Classical     references:     See 

References. 
Classics,  The:  208-10. 
Clearness:  21,  70-86,  88. 
Coincidence :   104. 
Color:    57,   58-9,    59-62,    75, 

77,  89-90,   105,  1 1 7-8,  197- 

204. 
Condensation :  See  Brevity. 
Contrast:  150-1,  160-5.  {See 

also  Relief  Scenes.) 
Convincingness:  38,  52,  94- 

108.     {See  also  Illusion.) 
Copying:   See  Imitation. 

Dialect:  62,  77,  89,  105,  106. 
Dialogue:  76. 


Distractions:  52-69,  88. 
Dramatic  element :   109-19. 

Editorial   offices:    227-43. 
Ending     a     story:      147-50, 
165-7. 

Fiction,  Wliat  it  is:   17-24. 

32-4,   64-6,    127-32,    140-2, 

154,  212. 
Fiction    as    a    vehicle:    24, 

32-4,  64-6. 
Fictional     references :     See 

References. 
First-person  narratives :  68, 

104-5,  151. 
Force :  22. 

Foreign  words :  See  Words. 
Frames     or     brackets :     68, 

91-2,  104-5. 
Friends    as    critics:    55,   63, 

72-3,  198. 


Happy      endings : 

165-7. 
Historical   references ; 

References. 
Horror  story.  The :  i: 


247 


123-S, 

See 

3-5- 

Illusion,  Imposing  and  pre- 
serving the :  10,  23-5,  30- 
45,   52-181,    197-204. 

Imagination  response:  197- 
204. 

Imitation,  Evils  of:  102-3, 
104,   187-8.   191-5. 

Improbabilities:  95-101. 

Individuality:  1 18-9.  (See 
also  hiiitation.) 

Individuality  z's.  technique: 
See  technique.  Academic 
methods. 

Literary,   Being:    51,   I9S-6, 


248 


INDEX 


205-12,  214-S.  (See  also 
Literature.) 

Literature:  1-3,  25-9,  80-2, 
85,  195-6,  215.  (See  also 
Literary.) 

Literature  vs.  Magazine  fic- 
tion: 25-9. 

Manuscript  reading  by  edi- 
tors:   182-4,  227-43. 

Manuscripts,  Preparing  and 
submitting:   227-43. 

Market,  The:  227-43. 

Material:  88,  95-ioi,  105-7, 
1 17-8,  123-7,  143-5,  217-26. 

Mistakes,  Effect  of  on  read- 
er :  62-3,  77-9,  105-7-  (.See 
also  Comnncingness,  Im- 
probabilities.) 

Models :  See  Imitation. 

Moral  values:   136,   139-45- 

Motion  pictures,  Effect  of: 
1 15-7,  140. 

Mystery  stories :  92-3, 
1 1 1-2. 

Obtrusion   of  author:   66-9. 
Overstrain  of  reader:  7,  87- 

93,  112. 
Plot:  39,  79,  88,  93,  96-100, 

101-3,    109-19,    145-7,    149, 

154-69,  171,  212-3. 
Plot,   positive  vs.  negative: 

I4S-7- 
Proper  names:  59-62,  73-5, 

75-6. 

Readers,  Your:  7,  20,  22, 
46-51,  71-3,  105-6,  120-3, 
150,  151,  153,  160-5,  197- 
204,  215-6.  (5"^^  also  Illu- 
sion, Imagination  Re- 
sponse.) 

Realism:  126-32,  133-4,  140- 
I,  161-5. 

References,  Classical,  his- 
torical, etc. :  59,  75,  89. 


Rejections*.  227-43. 
Relief  scenes:  90-1,  112-3. 
Repetition :  86. 
Repression :    Sec    Brevity. 
Rules:  44-5,  Si,  121-3,  134- 

5,     1 50- 1,     154-5,     160-5, 

172-5,     181,     182-96,     226. 

{Sec  also  Technique,  Ac- 

ademic.) 

Sentence  length:  88,  117, 
220. 

Setting:  117-8,  152. 

Simplicity:  1-2,  8,  22,  79-86. 

Slang:  77,  89,  105,  106. 

Structure:  23,  156-7.  {See 
also   Plot.) 

Style:  27,  38-43,  44-5,  63-4, 
64-9,  79-85.  104,  1 17-9, 
121-2,  150,  191-6,  217-26. 
{See  also   Technique.) 

Surprise:  iii,  160-6. 

Suspense:  iio-i,  151. 

Sympathies,  Enlisting  read- 
ers':  22,   120-53. 

Tags:  175-80. 

Technique,      Over-emphasis 

on :     10-4,    38-44,     182-96. 

{See  also  Academic.) 
Titles:  119. 

Unconvincingness :  See  Con- 
vincingness. 
Unity:    23,    157-8,    222-4. 
Unusual  words  :  See  Words. 

Words,   Ambiguous :  73. 
Words,     Big:     55-8,     79-8S, 

117. 
Words,    Foreign:    58-9,    75, 

89,  105,  106. 
Words,  Technical:    75,  89. 
Words,  Unusual,  55-62,  89. 
Words,     {See     also     under 

Slang,     Dialect,     Proper 

Names.) 


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